Moll Sullivan

Moll Sullivan

How’s it work, that one day our Moll
gives up her life, so just to loll?
That she’d lay aside from her father
his loamy dream and mine for swather:
our Moll, took pride she did
and up kept her head amid
many charlatans debased:
their visage just so disgraced!
‘ere now I knew she was in a rut,
the rumours of seeing her called a slut -
but it’s all so wrong!
our Moll, we know she’s headstrong.
It’s just that life has had her down.
Her Dad and I will visit town
and see if we can soothe her sorrow;
definitely, we’ll go tomorrow.

Yeah? I know Moll well enough -
Skank nowadays, god, she looks rough.
Tagged along with Clive and I, she did,
on our way to the taproom, Moll slid
a fiver right in my pocket -
the ID, she’d gone and lost it.
Look, I ain’t no babysitter,
Moll’s old enough to drink, so quit her
moaning she should; I just know
Clive’ll give in, he’s almighty slow.
Already he’s walking back home,
drunk Moll in his arms, so they roam.
By the pavement, I look on in disgust
at their blended gait - their liquor made lust.
I think to myself, as I go my own way:
I hate that bitch, Moll, how she laughs in her stray.

Oh Moll, please pick up the phone!
Your Dad hears only the tone.
Oh, where are you? Where is it that you could be?
Know, dear daughter, that we love thee…

What do you mean, you dumb bint, what is my name?
It’s Clive - as you called out when we fucked without shame.
You hardly recall, because you drank way too much.
Cry all you want, but that was as such.
Now have a shower, you smell all like death,
and brush your teeth, for so does your breath.
I need to leave, my own girl awaits;
she thinks I stayed over at a mate’s.
Go home Moll, go back to your parents:
your Mom, Sarah, and your Dad, Terrence.
Just think, dumb girl, they were worried sick -
all the while, you were here, taking my dick!

Wow, yesterday, just before our test
Moll sat beside me looking distressed.
I said: ‘Hey Moll, how are you? Are you doing okay?’
She smiled, and said: ‘I am, thanks Ray.”
I blushed, and smiled back; I always liked Moll,
Despite her troubles, she’d answer any call.
Only at school did we ever really meet,
yet friends we were, and I thought her sweet.
We’d share books together, as we both liked to read:
‘A magnificent library,’ she said, ‘is all I’d ever need.’
We two: friends. Though I liked her more.
It pained me to hide it - a forever covered sore.
The other guys, like Sid and Clive,
laughed at me always, and said I’ve
taken away the pleasure for the burden.
Everyone knew of Moll as the word’n
exploits she’d do after dark soon stuck.
Behind my back, they’d call me a cuck.
I care not, for Moll is my friend,
and I’ll stick beside her ‘til the end.

In the taproom, Clive and I sat
drinking scuffed beer, textured matte.
We laughed and joked about Moll’s friend, Ray:
‘He’s either a cuck, or fucking gay.’
How could a boy, with such clear senses
open up, leave clear his defences
to Moll, that conniving strumpet/harlot,
who spreads her legs for many, to her scarlet.
I said: ‘We take the piss and he probably deserves it,
but the thought of her deeds must drain his reserve’s wit.’
‘I’d be livid,’ said Clive, ‘if him I were.’
Says the man, once balls deep in her!
Moll even tried me, one time, what was barely subliminal
I declined, so easy she’d be - it’d be seen as criminal.
You might think me limp, a wimp; or bent like Ray,
but if you knew Moll’s record, you’d call foul play.
Her goods were soiled, most thorough and proper
to put off even the most thrift-hunting shopper.
Such were her actions, that Ray would soon find
himself wary and bitter of all womankind.
But no, while we sit here to drink and light smokes,
let Ray stay the gentleman, not the butt of all jokes.

‘Moll Sullivan, how are dare you run away!’
shouted her father, as I stood there at bay.
She’s sat here with us, her face cold stone;
emotionless, as though a gynoid clone.
‘I’m sorry I shouted,’ he said, shifting on the couch,
‘we’re just worried about you, not trying to grouch.’
Oh Moll, you know we love you so!
Our privy angel, must your light ever glow.
After it all, she knew not what we said,
for later she drifted on up, and off to bed.

My friend, where is she?
It seems, whereever I see
town’s folk massed,
her shadow’s cast
high above on distant walls;
footsteps flickered down the halls.
Stark in the sun these ghosts will dance,
mocking - of course - my faux romance:
all around I’ll hear them laughing,
they know I know they’re choreographing
all the way - my mistrepid venture;
for we all know, I’m not a wencher.
Two days since I last saw Moll,
stranded as I am on my lonely atoll:
I called her twice, and left enough texts
no doubt she’s too busy playing with her next’s
time and money - those dashing men
who give her such pleasure there and then.
I’m so confused, how I’m always shut out
and left to wonder and ponder in doubt.
Last I asked: ‘Lets meet later, okay?’
She said: ‘I’m sorry Ray, I can’t, just not today.’


*

Hello all, it’s me, Moll here.
I hope you don’t find my change at all queer!
Here, in a cluttered bedroom I’m sat:
writing for you, a most lurid story that
explains firstly, but later entertains -
for in rhyme I’ve taken great pains.
So yes, this is the room which my Dad sent me off
to and I could but only hide my innermost scoff
at the concern of all - oh, high and mighty!
In Sid with Clive, who judge so rightly;
in dear Ray, who thinks me Aphrodite;
with mother, that still dresses my nightie.
I’m a big girl now, there’s no need to impress
their worries upon me, no Damsel in distress
am I - yes, I revel in what you may see as smut,
but what girl hasn’t? lest she ignore her gut.
Does that not make me human? not to reason or know;
not to feel melancholy, bliss, happiness or woe?
I merely embark on my own personal odyssey
through the fruits of our liberal democracy.
Strike me down, or call me a degenerate,
For you know I can not spend my whole life celibate:
I am to all him merely used goods,
a taint in our good neighborhoods;
‘Our Moll, such a stupid girl!
Ought she gone and lost her pearl.
And no man of countenance respectable
should know her taste now as less than delectable.’
Though maybe there’s truth in what I’ve before written
of bitter Sid, and Ray so smitten
that all around, my life falls apart,
and so young I am without heart.
Maybe it will come, in ten or so years
that I’ll be left in nothing but tears
and no one around except from my mother
will care for me as they do for each other.
But how am I to know this, I’m not even twenty!
That ever so young, we’re left feeling empty.
The only way I can express such thought
is in writing verse I was never even taught:
how cliché, for me to write a poem
as if to say: ‘oh, I’ll show him!’
I’d say in truth that my only delight
comes with seeing how long I can write
this most banal of stories
set in drab territories.
If I should give one thought to the reader.
It is that I’m not a despised ringleader
of a cabal comprised of harpie and vixen
or witches skewering flesh upon sticks’n
screaming to the night as we revel in flesh:
‘Praise the devil! From Thurso to Marrakesh!’
Just know I am only Moll Sullivan:
of fun and freedom I am a suffragan.
My only wish for those I’m acquainted with
is that under accusation, I can but plead the fifth:
Ray, who is but a friend to me
hints I am more to him, I’m to be
his sweetheart dream…
or so I seem.
Sid, that bitter and vapid boy
thinks me the fallen chosen - him the goy,
I’ve ruined his image of the female form
as the ecclesiastical - kind and warm.
Clive, with whom I regret my time most utterly;
allowing myself to turn drunk, helping his adultery
and indulging his lamentations of the id:
wasting my time with this shallow and stupid kid.
My parents, who love me so dearly,
so much so, it seems to be so clearly
that should I give up the spark of virtue,
then forever, would I have to bid them adieu.
So let me say it again.
Among boys and men:
I am Moll Sullivan, soever I balk;
I think now, I shall go for a walk...