I first stumbled across this poem by the Godmother of Punk years ago; I kept it, printed out on a piece of crumpled cardstock, for years.
Over lunch today at High Noon I was telling Vendela how I was collecting anecdotes for a Please Kill Mestyle article on Living Better Electrically for the Jackson Free Press. We got on the subject of other books like that-the obvious one being We’ve Got the Neutron Bomb, the West Coast complement to the NYC focus of Please Kill Me, and then she said “I suppose they were all sort of in the tradition of that Edie book.”
And then this poem, which you can singalong to if you want, jumped back into my head. I could tell you how I love the repetition, or how the longing of the writer for the glamour of the fallen stars she so adores is so precious and so bittersweet, or how it breaks my heart that Edie’s “long long legs” become those “white white bones,” but I’ll just let you read it on your own.
EDIE SEDGWICK (1943-1971)
by Patti Smith
I don’t know how she did it. Fire
She was shaking all over. It took
her hours to put her make-up on.
But she did it. Even the false eye-lashes.
She ordered gin with triple
limes. Then a limosine. Everyone
knew she was the real heroine of
Blonde on Blonde.
oh it isn’t fair
oh it isn’t fair
how her ermine hair
turned men around
she was white on white
so blonde on blonde
and her long long legs
how I used to beg
to dance with her
but I never had
a chance with her
oh it isn’t fair
how her ermine hair
used to swing so nice
used to cut the air
how all the men
used to dance with her
I never got a chance with her
though I really asked her
down deep
where you do
really dream
in the mind
reading love
I’d get
inside
her move
and we’d
turn around
and she’d
turn around
and turn the head
of everyone in town
her shaking shaking
glittering bones
second blonde child
after brian jones
oh it isn’t fair
how I dreamed of her
and she slept
and she slept
forever
and I’ll never dance
with her no never
she broke down
like a baby
like a baby girl
like a lady
with ermine hair
oh it isn’t fair
and I’d like to see
her rise again
her white white bones
with baby brian jones
baby brian jones
like blushing
baby dolls
Tonite Sally comes home from her trip, and we’re gonna watch last night’s Tivo’d ANTM and tonight’s Survivor! My bet: Bye-bye, Caryn.
Well, it runs right up close to being a song, or at least needing a verbal component—it’s like, “Howl” kinda sucks, but if you hear it, it can be real cool. It’s not that you’re a moron by any means, but I think that’s the missing cog for you—the brittle growl of Patti Smith slip-slopping through the verbs. Too, I used to be very into the whole NYC art scene and the glamor and tragedy of it all, so that’s a big part of it, too.
this poem is in the book, “edie,” as well. that book really changed my life in 10th grade, when you know, i was this dumb wannabee living in natchex and listening to flesh for lulu and echo and the bunneymen 23 hrs a day. i’d never heard of the velvet underground or patti smith. in the book, p. smith says she remebres the first time she saw warhol and his crew, including ms sedgewick. it was at max’s kansas city, and p. smith had gotten herself all dolled up in a green miniskirt. she said that when she saw them all, she realized she was just jersey trash, but that she made a connection that night and realized she wanted to be in that crowd of artists and musicians and beautiful people, even though she was not beautiful. and that’s very touching. to see that even p. smith felt like a sub-par poseur at some point. that we all feel that way, yet we all contribute. and so i went out and bought some p. smith records and some v. underground records, and well “gloria” and “sunday morning” changed everything for me, and i’m not exaggerating, not that that matters to anyone but me.