90 Something Blatent...

truth, has a grit  
filled in soil and stone;  
thick, course, and dirty.  

It lives rough
in some hearts  
whose faces wear lines  
twisted as gravel roads,  
which leave honest living  
in scars and stretch marks.  
 
Yellow nicotine infected skin  
reflecting faded ink  
of 40 year old
tattoos  
(once dark and pretty,  
now stretched and worn  
to shreds and threads.)  
 
Netty was one of those women.  
 
She wore
the odd beard hair in grey
and spoke with the  
word "muthafucka"
peppered in her vocabulary
more regularly  
than "and"
and "umm".  
Just looking at the bald spots  
between her oiled mop  
streaked in Gentian Violet...  
 
We knew the years living in her blood  
were older, wiser, and richer  
than the double malt on ice  
glued to her palm.  
 
She didn't say much
at the party  
all eyes pegged
her body language  
as an excuse
for arthritic limbs  
and a spine
spinning in pain.  
The host was fairly
adept
at keeping her glass filled.  
She'd nod and attempt a smile  
at each refill
dropped.  
 
There was a shivering silence  
of acknowledgement
when she rose to her feet
unannounced and  
screamed in an authoritive manner...  
 
"By fuck we need a new law!  

Every time a cunt is born  
the birth certificate should be burnt  
to prevent the cocksucker  
becomin' President!"  
 
 
Then she fell to the ground.  
 
That's when the glass shattered.