She showed up last year

with a group of drunken babies, hedonists and

troubled look-at-me’s.

She was plastered with all the

Punk-rock concentrated jim-jams:

Mohawk

ripped fishnets

combat boots

bra through net-top

facial tattoos

plaid miniskirt

bullet-belt

Belladonna gap-tooth smile

and shot through with stainless.

Baptized in a barrel of butcher knives with

an advanced degree in

taking her clothes off.

Not pretty in the Marie Claire Sorority way

but like a blinding light

in the Austin TX swamp of

doughy Bettie Page haircut

pre-fab Rockabilly Stepford wives.

She now spends her time

shaking her ass

to pay for 5-dollar hamburgers and

cab rides for her

cleft-chinned boyfriends.

Rockers with teeth in their

hearts and brains,

bartenders with dead eyes

leather-wearing versions

of young Republicans in

date-rape shirts spelled out in Greek.

This punk-rock world as closed-minded and limited

as any Jew-hating country-club.

Loss follows her as she chases

Dogs made of shadows through

The perfect cobweb.

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