“while pillow talking w the man i’m fucking i call my/self bimbo”
*
& he tells me he knows
i cannot believe this; reminds me
of proust (in french!) peering back from my shelf
says he’s willing to bet on the status of my interior
& i think
how this is the thing men are best at betting
whether or not i have an interior i pick up the proust
hold him little mama’s boy before my face
dramatically
upside-down
i am citing my place in all of this i am locating my self
i’d do well to mind what i am good for
& how
tired
already of her dumb blonde image marilyn held
a book like this on camera in the 1953 triple bombshell vehicle
how to marry a millionaire (a class faux-pas tsk tsk MM)
her gesture an inside joke a compromise
to person/a how her public required such naturalizations such
calcifications of animal intelligence or else its lack as though
all that peroxide might go on leaking back in materially rearranging
her from the inside out
later;
when photographed on set as her /self
reading ulysses No One believed it possible
thing is acclaimed set photographer eve arnold emerged from retirement
to correct the smug university professor
who so smugly disputed the likelihood of monroe’s reckoning
w joyce’s notoriously dense text by remarking
how marilyn would read it aloud yes
& out of sequence MM “loved the sound of it” & so in this house
we are ALL ABOUT EVE
now
on instagram
inspirational quotes are inaccurately attributed
to her although done w care n longing
& when i was a girl i remember how i wished
MM had lived laughed & also Yes
loved longer
plus of course i still wonder how the FBI killed her
YES for knowing too much (bc Arthur?) that tell-
tale prick in the skin its spherical bruising so apparent on The Body
the whole damn world worshipped
in the autopsy also photographed also leaked
such beautiful bodies we have how the world loves to see us
yes ruined
how the world loves to hear the sound of the needle
pulled from the record a scratch & then
silence
(yes)
my man’s guess is i’m externalities
all
the
way
down
to grief is the belief
to let a man enter
might conjure his staying
good god
how many years am i
opening how many
rose quartzes worn down
to breaking
o how i adorn my décolletage w their replacements
dab lavender between my tits
another dumb prayer
now when this man cums inside
he places his palm against my navel
steadies me tenderly there
against his franticness
o i love & i love & i love & i love his need
how it distances him
/self from him/self & i sigh
beneath his weight this its sort of tenderness
if i beg him to linger
until some god reminds me
YOU ARE HERE
& i near to weep
w his pressure pressing
in my cavernous belly o soft place
of no forward
there at my root is no sacred
to give no not to him nor anyone
still i ask if he thinks he knocked me up
still i say call me your baby mama
still i am the world’s mother and will ever be no one’s
i think how badly marilyn wanted to conceive yes
i think how the doc botched the operation Yes
i think how this is a real fuck of a goddamn world YES
i love picturing her reciting penelope
& i for one have a bet of my own that
that old fart drinking pervert joyce woulda loved it too
in any case
in some far-flung dialects am i named
ending
i read yes that the continental slope is what it is called
where the cliffedge drops off in the sea to
endless
when he releases in me
to where
does it
tumble
o lord i am
getting ahead of myself again
for now
he fucks me &
i am still
as night jasmine
at high noon
& i lie
in wait for some shoe to drop
by which i mean there is always room
atop my neck for more shoes
more boots
more cocks
to fill the damned throat to choke out
my name & i shall give it to none of them
thus am i Bimbo destroyer of ongoingness
yes every proper Bimbo is an end
in her /self YES
men fill me
w misnomers & say i should delight in these
pigs in shit old sad circe et cetera the plush
consonants o that pin prick
of another terrible vowel
bruising merrily across my surfaces
yes
menfolk listen for my ripple my echo Yes
& i am beginning to prefer it this way distant
unable now to burble
over in the dumb fact
of my desire
jamie hood
is an ex doctoral candidate, ex hooker, ex girlfriend, & current insufferable twitter e-girl. she's finishing a manuscript of poetry, essays, & miscellany on assault and rape culture, called RAPE GIRL. she lives, writes, dog moms, and bartends in brooklyn.
Twitter: @veryhotmomm