Svelte Punk Chic

     I was immersed in the early punk rock scene for a period of time and experienced firsthand the inner devastation of fringe living.  Underground love left scarred hearts from sacred youth gone all bat-shit in a revolution against culture, politics, themselves and ultimately, nothing.
     There is a trilogy of verse from my writings at that time that circled around a couple of friends and their 3am confessions to the cave wall-dirty, pretty things from an unsentimental tribe.  Light a smoke, take a third shot of Jack and listen to a few notes from the dank night.

PLUMMET INTO BUNGLE

Wearing svelte punk chic

she was tearing down things

and her things

she would erect

instead...

Her toxic "I"

reigns constant-

poisoning caution's approach

in alteration to the host

and her eyes twitter mean.

"Bitch!" "I" cries;

"Whore!" "I" tumbles;

"Slut!" "I" turns to-

oh woman,

herself

immersed into.

Yet, she is not her lover;

just a random in happenstance

sycophant

melodious in sin expressed

softly

or harshly-

hardly a bother to please

or surpass

in expectation of pleasure

to her promise splayed out

amongst her discarded

regalia.

"I" had/she

has no

rhythm

lying there,

dirtying her push

as he retracts

and readies plunge-

unworthy, un-savored, unsane-

she reels in the catch

her toxic,

toxic "I"

must

arrange.

*

HOT, SEXY (AND DEAD)

          See

     the pretty girl run like melting snow

(a man fall like the sleet).

His woman

    has the heat (of an animal).

       He breathes

           like the hissing air of ash

              (from marihuana).

                  Passion garrotes her kiss

                      (like a hangman).

                          Their sweaty eyes

                              feed thirsting (for breath).

                                  A smoking silhouette

                                      of love's withdrawal

                                          (from flesh).

                                              A pang of nothing

                                                  left (in its streaks).

                                                     The moral diaries

                                                         their heads support

                                                            wane (and freeze).

                                                               Faith bathes

                                                                  in the sweat

                                                                     on gravestones

                                                                        (its death).

                                                                           The end

                                                                               (begins)

                                                                                  again.

                                                                                     A pretty girl

                                                                                        is like

melting snow

     (a man is like the sleet).

*

HUMP DAY

Wednesday

Tries to rule

Her Saturday

attitude

As she circles his party

With latitude for breathing-

Lust coiling serpentine

In her eyes' needy visage;

A stare war arises

In jaded,

Grainy remembrance

Of love's burning gone

And heart crushed

Like cigarettes:

Soled out

Like a snake,

Her body

Entwined

Like a snake,

She did animal things

And then lay in the shade;

A rest

For the reptile

Of loneliness within

Curled comfortably

Soothed

After miking from Man-

His slivers creating the darkness,

Teach her

To feed on the darkness,

And it sleeps

At her feet

Like faithful blackness

Should-

And her Saturday

succombs

To his

Wednesday

Afternoon.

*