Betty Hutton

26 11 2009

Betty Hutton (February 26, 1921 – March 11, 2007)

 

There was a hole. In the backyard. Where Betty buried her secret. A girlish delight. We’ll dig it up when we are much older. Hope shivered. In her bony legs. The little kid called ‘Tackspitter’. Sang for bleeding thumbs. Repentant saints. Biblical scum. Here that slap. Windshield wipers. And the sweet police.  Grabbing Betty’s mother’s. Ass. Escorting the family. Out of town. Like it was an apple. And they were the worm. They would sing. Hoping to embarrass good fortune. ‘Don’t say goodbye. Just say until we meet again.’

Ceiling fans. Chopped up her name. Liverwurst. Betty became. The high priestess of frenzy. Jitterbugging. Thrashed around so violently. Orgasm in the orchestra pit. The drummer sued her for assault. Her lover confessed. It was too much. Too much of the same old shit. But Betty had a miracle. It was hidden in her secret.

Indian owner Bill Veeck held funeral services to bury the 1948 pennant. Christine Jorgenson. Went under the knife. The 1st person to undergo a sex-change operation. Betty’s mother bought Clarence Birdseye 1st bag of frozen peas. And chipped her tooth.

On Broadway. On radio. In Hollywood. In movies. Where does she get all that energy? Success was satin sheets. Soiled. Cigarette veneer. Stains on the lamp shades. And that pool. Shaped like a kidney. Dr. Caligari’s cabinet. Without the cure.

Oh God! Let me fall in love! Some words sound better in music. Bouncing Betty. From lap to lap. Let’s call some friends, and have a party! Marriage. Kids. Sleeping pills. Divorce. Life moves so fast. When you’re never around.

On her knees weeping in the shower. The water swirling so perfectly down the drain. Down and out as the jitterbug Detroit juke box queen. On the sticky floors in the local music hall. Down with feathers & tears and a local boy. His future choking your throat. Down the paint red ran. In the long halls of miserable hotels. Painted so garish. On Avenue Marlene. Down in the kitchen. In St. Jude Parish. Patron saint of the hopeless. On her knees before her broken hearted lovers. Weeping in her tower. Down lip stick smeared. Across painted skin. Where was her secret buried? 86’d. Daddy ran off with suicide. Mommy ran a speak easy for the dead. None of Betty’s kids showed up. At the funeral…

 


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