Move Over, Millay ... A Rhapsody in Four Parts

Anyone who knows me, knows there is one thing I simply can't abide:


Edna

...dew dropped, convelescingly demure, lip pursingly lyrical.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, veritable pop princess of a more than two decade reign.

Do you know how many orgasms this woman had throughout the course of her starlit and impulse driven life?

It is not to be denied that our Edna had multiple orgasms.

She was all bravado. Rewarded like a man, for her consumption. At once and always considered easy company; it mattered not that her disposition was set on simmer. There was never call for Edna to reach full boil. Nothing so much was ever asked (let alone demanded) of her. It was assumed she had already won the game by the age of eight. This was the most self satisfied and well laid woman to have straddled the earth.

I have every reason to believe she was bossy. I easily imagine she suffered from chronic and torrential fibromyalgia. Obviously, she would incessantly diagnose herself. Though it must be known that Edna never found a wart. Why should she have escaped what some 75% percent of today's undeserving women now...? No doubt though, she could expertly wax her private areas in total darkness from the remnant leakage of her piteous candle - burnt at both ends.

Future meet - Past.

The Twenties. The Thirties. The Forties. The Fifties. Rolling in the hay... all the live long day.

Roar this...


"Edna Collects Her Thoughts"

#******#

We had only one exchange about a month or so ago. Glowing in gold, soft light, and a gossamer gown... she haunted my reverie:

EDNA:
We are all ruled in what we do by impulses; and these impulses are so organized that our actions in general serve for our self preservation and that of the race.

A. RANDALL:
Excuse me?

EDNA:
What the customer demands is last year's model, cheaper. To find out what the customer needs you have to understand what the customer is doing as well as he understands it. Then you build what he needs and you educate him to the fact that he needs it.

A. RANDALL:
Uh. Yeah. Are you hitting on me?


EDNA:
If I love you Wednesday, What is that to you? I do not love you Thursday - so much is true.


A. RANDALL:
Are you talking about loving Wednesday, the day of the week?


EDNA:
It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it's one damn thing over and over.


A. RANDALL:
What! Like one endless stream of orgasms? Fuck you.


EDNA:
My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light!


A. RANDALL:
Uh. Yeah. You've mentioned that, like, a thousand times.


EDNA:
Well. Tea was such a comfort.


# ****** #

Lazy Poet.
Drunkard.
Hussy. Extra Strength Tussy. Millay. Much like my Grandmother's deodorant.

What a cunning minx! What a ribald ruser. What did the woman want? The World. Everything. Not very discriminating, that Edna.

What a world?
To support such indulgence!

What suckers! To find that emasculating gleam in her eye and the bratty mediocrity of her mind as beholdsome as if they were plunging from the very bosom of Queen Nefertiti!

Oh. I see you Reader! You may mock me. I know this.

Permit me now, holder of folding ear, to vomit my truth! Yes! I am so very envious! Even of her fragile bones as they are today! She fulfilled her reason for living, and never lifted a finger but to scribble down some reflections on entitlement. She donned her victims in manipulative sheer linen jabs as they, in turn, cradled her bulbous ego in swaddling adoration...took her in, boated her around Indonesia, and memorized the pouting pathways of her most intimate topography.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, you winsome bushwhacker! How you rustle my pudding guts. You! Whose birth chart so closely mirrors mine, yet whose graceful luck leaves me here hacking the bohemian dust of your chronic charms. And you, perhaps, are following each one of your heavenly impulses with all of that Gonzo up there on cloud nine. You're SO GROSS Edna! However do you pull it off?

Rip me to shreds already.


Birthchart of E St. V

Actually, my chart follows that of Nick C. to the tee:



(This man is your sound minded enemy as well, Millay!)

#******#

The vile harpe's very legacy is included on syllabus after syllabus of our nation's impressionable secondary school students. Seemingly benign, Edna's work betrays not one of her dangerous motives or brazen assumptions. As with most things truly terrifying, her poems are like a pack of thin, worn, ravenous wolves all wearing fluffy, golden fleece.

Now, consider this piece borrowed from:

ECHOES: great poets inspiring young writers
"Echoes" is an encyclopedia of poets created by 8th grade English students at Cary Academy in Cary, North Carolina. Each site contains a biography of the poet, sample poems with literary analysis, and original student poetry inspired by the poet."
Echoes


This Dusky Faith - Edna St. Vincent Millay

Why, then, weep not,
Since naught's to weep.

Too wild, too hot
For a dead thing,
Altered and cold,
Are these long tears:
Relinquishing
To the sovereign force
Of the pulling past
What you cannot hold
Is reason's course.

Wherefore, sleep.

Or sleep to the rocking
Rather, of this:
The silver knocking
Of the moon's knuckles
At the door of the night;
Death here becomes
Being, nor truckles
To the sun, assumes
Light as its right.

So, too, this dusky faith
In Man, transcends its death,
Shines out, gains emphasis;
Shorn of the tangled past,
Shows its fine skill at last,
Cold, lovely satellite.


Eighth grader, *lythe *rie*man, writes: "This poem is about sleeping, also it is about how you dream, when you sleep. I chose this poem because I like the way it sounds when you read it, and because the poem gives a really good description. The poetic device used in this poem, is rhyming, but Millay doesn't rhyme every other stanza, she rhymes every 2 or three stanzas."


Blythe! Always strive to maintain such an enviable shield of ignorant bliss, sweet child!

Why try to wade deep in shallow puddles? Why guess at "Truckle"?

It might be important at this point to note that current pop artist, Rihanna:


....at one with rock, not just persuasive of tree... uses rhyming as a poetic device too.

Kids today know who and what they want to learn from. They don't need to fuck around humoring faculty, those musty "Chaperones of the Mind", like we did. They are operating on a much more sophisticated level. Their's is an era of blunt realism. Leave all things coy, precious, and sentimental at the door. The internet is a universal mind, all knowing, and just a few synaptic firings away from being a pure extention, infinite "free refill", of the human child's mind.


Question: Why are eighth graders listening to Rihanna?

Answer: Because they don't have any time for BULLSHIT.


Artist: Rihanna
Album: Pon De Replay

[Hook:]
Come Mr. DJ put this son on replay
Come Mr. DJ won't you turn the music up
All the gyal pon the dancefloor
Wantin some more what
Come Mr. DJ won't you turn the music up
(Repeat)

[Verse 1:]
It goes 1 by 1 even 2 by 2
Everybody on the floor let me show you
How we do
Let's Go
"Dip it low then you bring it up slow"
Wine it up 1 time wine it back once more

[Pre-Hook:]
Run, Run, Run, Run
Everybody move run
Lemme see you move and
Rock it 'til the grooves done
Shake it 'til the moon becomes the sun (Sun)
Everybody in the club give me a run (Run)
If you ready to move say it (Yeah)
One time for your mind say it (Yeah Yeah)
Well I'm ready for ya
Come let me show ya
You want to groove im'a show you how to move
Come come
[cont'd:]

Rihanna is more forceful in her rhyming. More intent.

These, I believe, are the teats of joyful sentiment from which our young people should be nursed.

As soon as they get some teeth, let them chew on the bigger gists.

Here we see that Rihanna, unlike Edna, shows no shortage of integrity and accountability when it comes to her personal relations:

Song: Unfaithful

[?]
...Our Love...his trust
I might as well take a gun and put it to his head
Get it over with
I don't wanna do this anymore ...whoah..anymore

[Hook?]
I don't wanna do this anymore
I don't wanna be the reason why
Everytime I walk out the door
I see him die a little more inside
I don't wanna hurt him anymore
I don't wanna take away his life
I don't wanna be...a murderer oooh. no...


Good lessons here. No bullshit.

Kids! Just say " Go Truckle Yourself!". Then get up. Dust yourself off. And run... if you trip on the pathway to Millay.