Poetry

The Whore of Binghamton

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 POETRY

The Whore of Binghamton by Mark Bibbins


 



The Whore of Binghamton

Put my dollar in the jukebox cat sniffing

my pumps keen for the fish bones

I spiked in an alley behind Hunan Palace

with a guy who said I was an exotic bird

and it’s partly true I like shiny things

so I stole his watch as I blew him.

You get three songs here all of mine

are going to be long. This one’s about

a handbag in a tire track and a gone moon

it puts me back at 15 my legs

pointing out stars through the sunroof

of some shitty Trans Am under

the oak in my mother’s driveway.

She took the money blacked my eye

said Hell’s half fulla whores like you

so I made a snow angel by the front porch

watched it stand up and thrash her dead

with its wings and I was gone.

Should I have been born a boy slingshooting

rats and fingering girls like me behind

the oil tanks well maybe I was.

I’ll bad sister you by the airstrip and pull

out the bullet with my teeth your finger in

the slit of my skirt will mean it then and so will I.

     

  

 POETRY


 



Groupie

All the money I lied about, the makeshift

stomach pump — forget everything

and the way to where it happened. The guitar

god wants me has me ditches me calls me

from the road and can I wire some money, he’s

gotten into a situation, a barren tour bus fridge

so can I meet him in Trenton and bring a bag.

The next nude reveals herself

and she’s thin in the way the age demands —

not conventionally pretty, not conventionally shaved,

but a rail to rail against if there’s time and there is.

I’m at work on a new line of lipsticks: Foie Gras,

Primordial Soup, Wound — everyone who tries them

gets beautiful.

The girls and I wanted to be martyrs,

instead we love an astronaut who blows

sunshine up our asses from halfway to its source. Fuck him.

Our supply lines have snapped — no more K, no more X,

no more. I take comfort in gossip, the usual

gossip, but different: This one stitched a quilt of moths,

another painted all his rooms gold. We, the girls and I,

we pull the wings off swan-boats, follow our favorite

to the stars and the capsule in which we keep

recipes we’ve saved for our successors so they do not starve.

  

     






©2001
Mark Bibbins and Nerve.com