Wednesday, 30 March 2011

Chris Port Blog #154. ‘Tis Pity She’s A Bore...

© Chris Port, 2011

The Lonely Lay Is Essex: 
“Men were mere extras in the Life of Joseann...”

The Only Way Is Essex 

Joseann was a good time girl, and the boys feared her. Centuries of feminist struggle had won her the right to squeal a lot in short skirts. Chastened males jostled with each other to sidle out of earshot. While fond of the occasional bacon sandwich, the noise of a pig being slaughtered in an abattoir caused them hypocritical distress. 

Like all good time girls, Joseann knew what she liked and liked what she knew. What she did know about life could be written in Rimmel and tucked into a handbag. Consequently, while her modest breasts and expensive tastes were well supported, her humour gland was pitifully malnourished and under-developed. 

Being deprived of understanding, she often mistook her sneering for irony and her apathy for wit. She liked to think of herself as challenging the male ego, and in this she was right. Picking up her sneers was like picking mummified fly husks off the window sill. Males generally dislike cleaning and prefer to let insults pile up in the sunlight for the sake of a quiet life. But sometimes, in a fit of outraged boredom, one would pick up and crush her rabbit-turd words with tender toilet paper care. In public. To the confident, extrovert female this was, of course, unforgivable and would result in her running to the toilet in tears, trailing tissues, chased by Andrex puppy friends. An uncomfortable silence would descend, broken only by a theatrical sobbing offstage. 

Joseann wanted to be a famous actress. Well, famous anyway. All of her life was a professional act. Men were mere extras in the Life of Joseann...

"Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd."
~ William Congreve, The Mourning Bride, 1697. 

But what causes the scorn?

LUCIFER: Put a wrap on that beaten heart;
your swollen tiny fist
just pounds against her smug shut laugh;
all women fight like this.
“I don't feel the same way”
she calmly shrugs,
as if she ever loved;
like a smiling knife, she twists your words,
with a surgeon’s skill, she cuts.
So; pull a smile with a tightening thread
and shut that gaping vein;
let’s turn that razor wit to get
her precise, unblinking pain.
And when that slash of lipstick cries
“Why do you do this to me?”,
just show it that beaten heart and sigh
“I died - and this isn’t me”.

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'Tis Pity She's A Bore... is also available on 3 Way Split Writer Group Forum.

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