THE LIVES OF DEAD JAZZ SINGERS: Betty Hutton

5 03 2009

THE LIVES OF DEAD JAZZ SINGERS:
Betty Hutton
there was a hole that suicide crawled out of. ‘Tackspitter’ sang for bleeding thumbs and windshield wipers. Oh, the police were always polite. Escorted us out of town. They would sing in a chorus, ‘Don’t say goodbye. Just say until we meet again.’ Ceiling fan chopping up her name. Became the high priestess of frenzy. Jitterbugging. Thrashed around so violently. Fell into the orchestra pit. The drummer sued her for assault. On Broadway. On radio. In Hollywood. In movies. Where does she get all that energy? Success was satin sheets. Smelling of cigarette smoke. And that pool shaped like a kidney. Oh God! Let me fall in love! Bouncing Betty. From lap to lap. Let’s call some friends, and have a party! Marriage. Kids. Sleeping pills. Divorce. Hotel rooms. On her knees weeping in the shower. The water swirling so perfectly down the drain. The paint red ran in the long halls of lonely hotels. Everything was so sticky. Lipstick smeared across painted skin. Like graffiti. 86’d. None of her kids showed up. At the funeral

betty-hutton
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