in the 70s my mother worked in a puzzle factory-the building is now artist lofts-working class misery turned into Factory-esque nonchalant upper middle class bougie bougie market rate style.
she had to go back to work because my father, the drug dealer, had violated the only rule that's truly important to making money selling drugs- don't do the fucking stuff.
we have no food in the house. i have no clothes for school that fit. daddy has a new sports car and a truly massive audiophile sound system that everyone is rather scared to touch.
at the factory, one of the biggest sellers is chesty morgan- posters and puzzles. one of the few post 50s/ post burlesque strippers to ever have the fucking sense to save her money , do a few films and get the fuck out of a system celebrated as liberation. self deprication masqurading as freedom.
in those pre silicon days, the rather ungainly chesty was hot stuff- hard to tell now watching her platform stumblings and mumblings through doris wishman tittyshakers.
chesty did make the rounds to strip clubs , chatting with the gals about her career. my stripper friends said she mostly told them to stop doing the drugs and invest in property...or else they'd completely fuck themselves over.
we should all just listen to chesty because she's right . nothing has changed- grab your bit of cushioning power and get the fuck out before it's to late. of course with some people they're just born in too late.
you see everyone around you grow those long white teeth and the ones you thought might be saved start drooling blood, messy and caught off guard, looking at you askance and scared because you know...
something about greed and delusion.
holding out a hand to catch the flood-possible?- perhaps but not in the land of discord.
under the tree, back in the woods-listen to me crow : i am hearing you.