Click to view Our beloved bottle blonds returned to us last night with skydiving, poverty, and plenty of bitch fighting. There is only one thing that can contain all the emotions we are still feeling: poetry!
Yes, Gretchen, Tamra, Lynne, Vicki, and Jeana are our muses and we think that this is a fitting tribute for the start of what is sure to be a great season of foreclosures, petty disputes, and plastic surgery.
Gretchen Rossi Has a Dildo with a Cord
like feet searching for the ground while hurling
out of a plane. Empty like tingling
in the cheeks longing for the flapping rush of wind
and the taut explosion of a screaming descent.
like a love tank in a Prius that has no sparks
and no oil and is just cruising down a hill to crash
into the community's gate. The neighbors will swell
out of their houses—empty, all their goods pawned—
And they will watch as her bloody manicure
sweeps her hair out of her face and she begins
to climb back up the hill, past the empty homes. The mood
is foreboding and gnawing, like debt, like a husband
who doesn't yell, he talks
But when he talks, he is accused of yelling
because everything about his spouse is empty,
her head, her threats, her rhetoric, she is empty
like a puppet missing a hand
like a marionette bobbing
Up and down on yellow strings trying to force her
body into a desirable shape. She is just gilding it,
like a leather and diamond cuff, like Wonder Woman's
bullets deflecting in every direction.
The jewelry is designed by a beast, her
tanned hide stretched tight over ribs
like a fleshen xylophone. Hit her with mallets,
make her sing a song of peace as she brings the enemies
around a table, floods it with wine.
Watch them fight, watch them cower. There are
no angels here. Only the accused, eyes still
puffy from crying at the beach with her little creature terriers
named pain and vanity. She cares for them
but longs for a man
Blank as a slate to throw her around a cluttered garage.
There is no room for your grief in the flotsam.
Clear out a space for your dead husband's hospital bed, the Ming vase
urn, swirling with the blue lines of your tears
protecting the chunky ash.
Around the dinner table, let them talk about flowers,
let them talk about work
Let them talk about truth and grievances.
No victims, just someone to tell you to shut the fuck up
to seance the ghost of your gold digging succubus
Before the final empty accusation:
Gretchen Rossi has a dildo with a cord.