I
Lords of punk rock.
Fathers of rebellion.
Conscious of syringe
affliction. Noisy
dickhead posture.
The charade is
likely tiring;
Purple hair,
Purple coats,
Purple chords.
Mini-van for hire
to chauffeur ambition
of young-old formula,
sold to commodity
consumers in suburb
mall Americaland.
II
It's funny how
everything works out.
Heroes die young,
or they become the
same old crack
in the shattered mirror.
The one you picked
up the pieces for.
The one you cut
your wrists for.
Culture left you
blue in face,
red in wrists,
with fingerprints
where contention held.
Punk rock:
all the filthy,
unclean,
dysfunctional,
dead children
inspired by black/white
photographs.
Aspiring
to be expression
in their purest form.
III
You are the howl.
Still piercing in a
dark, dilapidated
basement, existing
in disembodied fury.
You are the trauma.
Shattering the bones
we'd use like toothpicks
to dislodge echos
from our teeth.
You are the dissonance.
The inhumane growl
erupting between
sound and silence.
You are the sound.
You are the silence.
You are the color.
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