Royal Bitch

Here is the sister poem for the previous one. I wrote this in a moment of capsizing fear to bring some order to the world, to my life, to it all. It also isn't perfect, but it is quite the explication. Enjoy!

Royal Bitch

Dedication: For all the It-girls of privilege that have entered popular culture as of late. I wish you would be more like this.

She makes fun of the girl who looks a mess
When everyone is wearing their Sunday best
For she is flawless
Not lawless
Pretty in pink
Perhaps, some day, tallest
Perfect and it pains her so
Because beauty is pain
And don't she know

Mother attended Institut Alpin Videmanette
She was the prim and proper coquette
Schooled in the arts of etiquette
She demands the same of her daughters
For those poor in society bore her
And she will not breed insolent indolence for their father
He won’t have it either

So we return to our lady of class
She isn't quite Mother yet, but our virtuous lass
Reluctant to be a daughter of phallocentric privilege
Her eyes have absorbed much
And she is assessing the spillage

Yet
She is a good daughter of tradition
And she will wear it well
That is her joi de vivre
To be both lady, and belle

Educated and refined
Her taste not quite set
She is growing to the praise that her station will beget

But first,
Our thoughtful beauty has some lessons to pass
Feminism
Misogyny
Objectification
She understands these constructs?
Understands their past?
She is learning
Learning how to lift the veil
To see
The androcentrism in old fairy tales
It is not an easy task
For she richly inherits a tradition whose joys she may question
This tried and true
Expanding the dimensions
of her mind
And the reflections
of her heart

For the self she aims to be
Her own objet d'arte

Her mind grows to examine the folly she sees
She is troubled by them who she is subjected to regularly
Even the rejects
The unruly few
For them
She demonstrates with beauty
The virtue
Of delicacy

Male and Female alike she instructs
With hesitancy
She scolds
Isn’t quick
May be bold
But she isn’t cold
And ultimately
In the end
Even she knows

Truth is peripatetic
The middle is excluded
The necessary dialectic

For our Pynchon schooled her
As she cried for her lot
He teaches the masses
What is nasty
What is hot
Our writers
Designers
Leaders
Artists
Those who think in private
But who live in the public
They understand the value of this American diet
They are of it
For
Our Royal bitch who wins it all
Who
Shines
Beams
Glows
At the debutante’s ball