Late, but still Part Three.
So very late with this one. Sorry, sorry, sorry!
Act One - Chapter Three. Drumroll please:
The Wild Party by Joseph Moncure March
3
Sunday noon:
Broiling hot.
Queenie woke up feeling shot.
She lay stretched out on the crumpled bed
Naked: slim arms above her head.
She stared at the ceiling;
She stared at her feet;
She stared at the clock,
And cursed the heat
Faintly:
Quaintly.
She looked exquisite; saintly.
Burrs was up,
Ugly; silent;
Unshaven;
dressed in a pair of violent
Pink pyjamas, badly crumpled.
His eyes were pouched.
His hair was rumpled.
He sat brooding like a captive satyr
Over a cup and a percolater.
He was gross;
Morose.
The Sunday Tabloid spread before him
Rather unusually well supplied
With murder,
Rape,
And Suicide,
Left him cold: unsatisfied.
Even the comics seemed to bore him.
Queenie lifted her head
A trifle from the bed.
"Burrsie!" she piped.
Her voice was pitched
In a fretful key.
His mouth twitched:
He was dangerously still,
By enormous power of will.
Her eyes filled with a martyred look:
She registered grief, and her voice shook.
"Burrsie!"
Sharply-
"Well?" he inquired.
"Burrsie! Queenie is oh, so tired!"
His teeth snapped.
He was glittering-eyed.
For a moment he could not decide
Whether it would be best to throttle
Or brain this woman with a nearby bottle.
A woman who slept
Like a corspe under sod,
And woke up tired!
Almighty God!
His nerves jangled.
He saw red.
He said nothing: but Queenie did,
From the region of the bed,
Peevishly:
"Burrsie! Pour out a cup for me!"
Said she.
"The hell I will, you lazy slut!
Do you think you're the Prince of Wales,
Or what?"
Tense
Silence,
Foreboding sudden violence.
Queenie rolled up on to her side.
She looked Burrs over, narrow-eyed.
Her eyebrows rose
On a vicious slant:
Her mouth and chin grew adamant.
Burrs was a afraid-
Already routed.
He tried bluster.
"Well!" He shouted,
Glaring:
But she simply lay there
Staring.
So for a long, awkward while.
At last she smiled a contemptuous smile
At nothing. She yawned. She rose.
She pulled on a pair of sheer black hose.
She rouged her lips.
She powdered her nose
And kept on going until at last her
Flesh to the knees was alabaster.
Burrs watched.
The silence grew.
Was she through?
Who knew!
She thrust one foot
in a French-heeled shoe,
And gave both a critical inspection:
Never a look in his direction.
The silence chilled his brain.
"Queenie!"
Silence.
Again:
"Queenie!- Hell!"
He was stubborn now:
He'd make her talk, no matter how!
He set his teeth,
Swallowed his pride;
Rose:
Slunk over:
Crouched at her side.
"Queenie!"
He seized her arm; shook it.
She may have been pleased,
But she didn't look it.
Her eyes flashed:
No truce!
She wrenched her arm loose.
Up she leapt, white faced.
He lunged:
His arms went around her waist:
They tightened: they locked:
They crushed her thin.
For a moment, she writhed;
Then she gave in.
He pulled her backwards,
And her soft, slim
Body flew down and covered him.
His face was pressed
Deep in her breast.
She loosened.
She waited.
She lay still,
Giving his hands and lips their will.
She was cold as ice, all through it:
She had him now,
And she knew it.
His heart quickened:
His breath thickened.
She covered his mouth with a kiss like flame;
And he quivered; and he gasped;
And he almost came.
Now,
Swift as a snake,
She shifted.
Her shoulders rose.
Her arm lifted.
Down she struck.
His tight embrace
Gave. His hands covered his face.
She leapt up; fled, with hard laughter.
Bleeding at the mouth,
He rushed after.
"You rotten bitch!
I'll fix you yet!"
She grabbed a knife from the kitchenette,
And a brown bottle with a whisky label:
Then dodged
Swiftly
Around the table.
They paused: watched:
Animal-eyed,
Furious,
From either side.
Her face was white as through newly plastered.
"You touch me-
I'll kill you, you filthy bastard!"
The threat was banal,
But her tone lent it
A quality that showed she meant it.
A pause.
"Well-?"
It was over.
"My sweetie's bats-
But I love her!"
Said Burrs drily.
He smiled wryly.
He was wily.
Queenie shrugged, and took the cue.
"Aw, nuts- and to hell with you!"
Was her not to sentimental retort.
"Come on," urged Burrs: "be a sport!
Go on, Cutie- drop the knife!
Let's call it quits.
I like my life!"
"Yeah?" said Queenie: "I wouldn't choose it.
And once for all, I'll tell you what:
The next time you call me a lazy slut,
If I find a knife, I'll damn well use it!-
Kick that idea around till you lose it!"
Having delivered herself of this,
She gave him a condescending kiss.
She took a cracked cup from the shelf:
Rattled the percolator;
Helped herself.
Sat,
Sipped;
Perfect lipped,
Legs crossed:
At ease: engrossed.
Beautiful.
There was a lull.
Peace.
But her face was still white,
And her eyes flickered with angry light.
At last she gave an odd
Double nod.
She raised her handsome head;
She said:
"Burrsie, I think we're about due
For a party:
Don't you?"
Said Burrs: "I do!
My god! I haven't been really tight
For a week!
Let's ask the gang to-night!"
Act One - Chapter Three. Drumroll please:
The Wild Party by Joseph Moncure March
3
Sunday noon:
Broiling hot.
Queenie woke up feeling shot.
She lay stretched out on the crumpled bed
Naked: slim arms above her head.
She stared at the ceiling;
She stared at her feet;
She stared at the clock,
And cursed the heat
Faintly:
Quaintly.
She looked exquisite; saintly.
Burrs was up,
Ugly; silent;
Unshaven;
dressed in a pair of violent
Pink pyjamas, badly crumpled.
His eyes were pouched.
His hair was rumpled.
He sat brooding like a captive satyr
Over a cup and a percolater.
He was gross;
Morose.
The Sunday Tabloid spread before him
Rather unusually well supplied
With murder,
Rape,
And Suicide,
Left him cold: unsatisfied.
Even the comics seemed to bore him.
Queenie lifted her head
A trifle from the bed.
"Burrsie!" she piped.
Her voice was pitched
In a fretful key.
His mouth twitched:
He was dangerously still,
By enormous power of will.
Her eyes filled with a martyred look:
She registered grief, and her voice shook.
"Burrsie!"
Sharply-
"Well?" he inquired.
"Burrsie! Queenie is oh, so tired!"
His teeth snapped.
He was glittering-eyed.
For a moment he could not decide
Whether it would be best to throttle
Or brain this woman with a nearby bottle.
A woman who slept
Like a corspe under sod,
And woke up tired!
Almighty God!
His nerves jangled.
He saw red.
He said nothing: but Queenie did,
From the region of the bed,
Peevishly:
"Burrsie! Pour out a cup for me!"
Said she.
"The hell I will, you lazy slut!
Do you think you're the Prince of Wales,
Or what?"
Tense
Silence,
Foreboding sudden violence.
Queenie rolled up on to her side.
She looked Burrs over, narrow-eyed.
Her eyebrows rose
On a vicious slant:
Her mouth and chin grew adamant.
Burrs was a afraid-
Already routed.
He tried bluster.
"Well!" He shouted,
Glaring:
But she simply lay there
Staring.
So for a long, awkward while.
At last she smiled a contemptuous smile
At nothing. She yawned. She rose.
She pulled on a pair of sheer black hose.
She rouged her lips.
She powdered her nose
And kept on going until at last her
Flesh to the knees was alabaster.
Burrs watched.
The silence grew.
Was she through?
Who knew!
She thrust one foot
in a French-heeled shoe,
And gave both a critical inspection:
Never a look in his direction.
The silence chilled his brain.
"Queenie!"
Silence.
Again:
"Queenie!- Hell!"
He was stubborn now:
He'd make her talk, no matter how!
He set his teeth,
Swallowed his pride;
Rose:
Slunk over:
Crouched at her side.
"Queenie!"
He seized her arm; shook it.
She may have been pleased,
But she didn't look it.
Her eyes flashed:
No truce!
She wrenched her arm loose.
Up she leapt, white faced.
He lunged:
His arms went around her waist:
They tightened: they locked:
They crushed her thin.
For a moment, she writhed;
Then she gave in.
He pulled her backwards,
And her soft, slim
Body flew down and covered him.
His face was pressed
Deep in her breast.
She loosened.
She waited.
She lay still,
Giving his hands and lips their will.
She was cold as ice, all through it:
She had him now,
And she knew it.
His heart quickened:
His breath thickened.
She covered his mouth with a kiss like flame;
And he quivered; and he gasped;
And he almost came.
Now,
Swift as a snake,
She shifted.
Her shoulders rose.
Her arm lifted.
Down she struck.
His tight embrace
Gave. His hands covered his face.
She leapt up; fled, with hard laughter.
Bleeding at the mouth,
He rushed after.
"You rotten bitch!
I'll fix you yet!"
She grabbed a knife from the kitchenette,
And a brown bottle with a whisky label:
Then dodged
Swiftly
Around the table.
They paused: watched:
Animal-eyed,
Furious,
From either side.
Her face was white as through newly plastered.
"You touch me-
I'll kill you, you filthy bastard!"
The threat was banal,
But her tone lent it
A quality that showed she meant it.
A pause.
"Well-?"
It was over.
"My sweetie's bats-
But I love her!"
Said Burrs drily.
He smiled wryly.
He was wily.
Queenie shrugged, and took the cue.
"Aw, nuts- and to hell with you!"
Was her not to sentimental retort.
"Come on," urged Burrs: "be a sport!
Go on, Cutie- drop the knife!
Let's call it quits.
I like my life!"
"Yeah?" said Queenie: "I wouldn't choose it.
And once for all, I'll tell you what:
The next time you call me a lazy slut,
If I find a knife, I'll damn well use it!-
Kick that idea around till you lose it!"
Having delivered herself of this,
She gave him a condescending kiss.
She took a cracked cup from the shelf:
Rattled the percolator;
Helped herself.
Sat,
Sipped;
Perfect lipped,
Legs crossed:
At ease: engrossed.
Beautiful.
There was a lull.
Peace.
But her face was still white,
And her eyes flickered with angry light.
At last she gave an odd
Double nod.
She raised her handsome head;
She said:
"Burrsie, I think we're about due
For a party:
Don't you?"
Said Burrs: "I do!
My god! I haven't been really tight
For a week!
Let's ask the gang to-night!"