The air has an edge,
Chalky and gritty and filled with smoke,
Like last Tuesday,
Like every Tuesday before.

Violent music pounds the amps,
Thick bass tangles in my hair,
Hatred and angst, rebellion
Undulates the crowd.

Glaze drapes over bleary eyes,
Still, I see her, again,
Like a beacon.
Melted and dirty and used,
On a shiny-red, leather sofa,
Dragging on a stolen cigarette.

A fingertip chipped in blood-red,
Taps the beat into her thigh,
While her lips, offensively oozing smoke,
Mirror the lyrics in time.

One side of her head is shaved to the skin
And snakes of jet-black hair,
With bleached-blonde, venomous heads,
Writhe downward through the field of stubble.

Torn fishnets plume from knee-high boots
To be swallowed under leopard print.
Everything about her stands out,
Everything about her screams,
And I know...

There is something behind those eyes,
Something deeper than defiance.

Don’t give her knives,
She will lick the blade then
Tear you apart,
Rib by rib, just to see how you work.
She will smash her empty vodka bottles
So she can watch
The sparkle of shards bury deep
In your bedroom carpet.

Sexy, layered with cool.

The bands wail their songs,
Flashy and loud; fuck corporate greed, fuck social injustice,
Or, just fuck.

She laughs, sings along, identifies.

And while her cunt, punk attitude drives away most,
Her gravity draws me,
Coiling into the spiderweb of scars
That wraps my fucking heart.
A common, immutable sentence.

Until I am beside her,
Shiny and used,
Lost in her subversive courtship.
Moth and flame,
Ready to be burned,
Like last Tuesday, and every Tuesday before.