Play Girl Play Life
Who am I? is a stupid question
for the girls who give favors
under the money veil,
evanescent in daylight. We are power.
I don’t associate myself with “we”—
the General’s broken broads.
I fucked Philip Markoff.
He didn’t kill me but
I burned his money,
Balconette ghosts, by the Eiffel Tower.
I read the newspaper. For once.
And after I dirty purity,
Sarah Palin ruining America
makes me spit. Eleanor chants
in my cigarette smoke: “No one
can make you feel inferior
without your consent.”
I chew my pinky promise.
Who said I keep promises?
I dare mirrors, my reflection vanishing.
Fingernails black, I bathe in real gold,
keep my hair short, don’t play with money.
Hear the clink of treasure
in my piggy bank when they knock.
In the end, we’ll put our hands
between porcelain legs,
tempt the knife, and pray to Eleanor.
No one I’ve ever loved has died.