Black and White Punk Rockette on the Schenectady to Albany Bus 1984
alan catlin
Her dyed black hair is a nightmare mix
of railroad spikes and razor cuts leaving her
ears exposed: the left one is a mortification
of the flesh, perpetually raw in all seven places
where the safety pins pierce the skin. the right
one is for Captain Midnight: a plastic six inch
dangling earring of Old Mr. Bones himself,
whose painted ribs click together every time she
turns her head to look out the window or to closely
examine the words written on coffin tops in blood
on the album covers of her favorite punk rock
group: Necros, Live! Her paint blackened eye
sockets are intent amidst pounds of pallorous
white facial powder, are as dark as the thick
black leather studded collars and wrist bands
that define her body, hiding the scars she caresses
like a lover in the night. Sitting still is for
others not hot wired into the spliced neural circuits
between stars, they who cannot hear the dead
singing, scratching their long maroon painted
nails on glass, each of ten ringed fingers
a momento mori whose red eyes are always glowing
in the dark.
