Monday, October 1, 2018

trojan gas pump

Helen’s stopped her Prius for a top-off,
just across the pump from a pickup with a jack-off
screeching she looks “really pretty”
In the dress she wore today.
Really, really pretty.
Helen rolls her eyes, there’s little she can do.
She never asked a thousand ships to launch.
But Hector and Achilles have a pre-determined duel,
and she’s a plausible excuse as any.
This is the duty of the young and pretty,
Her mother told her—
You’re there to provide some distraction
From the dullness of the world.
And sure,
What better gift could you give an honest man
Than a glimpse of the Elysian
by a gas pump at 10am?

I’m not flirting, pickup boy protests,
It’s just so good to see a woman in a dress.
Helen yawns
for she
has accepted
the foisted role of sacrificial lamb.
Women stock men’s piles, fodder
To throw under the bus when necessary
To keep them from losing face—
she has no illusions she’ll be spared,
is fully expecting sacrifice
on the altar of their Ego:
it's a self-referential cult,
always hungering for flesh—
If history’s a double decker,
Helen’s spinning underneath
its wheels forever

But in the meantime,
She is exploring all potential
avenues for a woman
With keen imagination
To make the inevitable journey
above the altar to under bus
of utmost interest possible
for a curiosity as vivacious
as her breasts are lively.

Helen’s just a soul who wants the classic
Good Life—wine, love and conversation—
all sweet things in temperate moderation,
stable contentment with Menelaus in Sparta,
But Paris wants more than just a pastoral.
Helen’s shrewd enough to realize
ideals are for the weak—
all idylls reach their expiration date—
what’s real is six weeks of sex on Trojan beaches,
what’s fantasy is kindness from a penis.

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