Rosy Phinick is another one of the five poets I’m going to be featuring in the forthcoming 7th issue of my zine, Effigy. Rosy’s work has a certain attitude to it that she does well. She’s very ambitious and unafraid in what she says, which is a very good quality. Also, who doesn’t love a poem about punk rock?
Gimme gimme this.
A record crackles fuzzy in the living room, where three guys hunch
over a ceramic plate of powder, taking turns sniffing and
bleeding into their sleeves.
My guy’s wearing a white denim jacket that
stretches tight across his shoulders when he crouches down.
There’s a hole fraying in a corner.
I can see his hips and a straight line of blood crusting over.
On the couch next to me, slashed-stockinged legs cross upside down, and
I wonder whose they are.
The record’s skipping now, Darby bellows “That! That! That!”
until a girl in one high heel knocks the player over.
The room feels thick with sweat and bloody noses, spilled beer, hairspray,
I smear my lipstick across my cheek with the
heel of my hand and no one will notice.
Someone puts on “Rocket to Russia” and cheers, nostalgia for a
time we were never around for.
I remember the first time I heard the Ramones.
Three years ago, thirteen, dreaming of four leather jackets and
bubblegum spat on a New York street, believing that
three chords meant revolution.
My guy slumps into the couch, lays his bleached head
in my lap, sniffles, coughs.
