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Even her pubic hair looked aggressive


Punkette dressed in tin foil
and celluloid, mini-skirt ephemeral
as an aura made hazy by Ecstasy
and weed, watercolored now, streaking,
painted like mascara on ladies room
mirrors punched into pieces and spread
among the stalls, a leprosy of dreaming,
flaking off as skin, extraneous limbs,
throbbing parts, disconnected in strobing
lights, tenuous as nightmares over the edge,
razor cut and bleeding,  removed to
the dance floor, invincible and godlike,
hair like streamers on fire, eyes, neon headlamps,
flashing green, yellow, red so wide vehicles
might drive inside, become trapped, lost;
the sound of them fading the deeper they go.

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About Alan Catlin

In a previous life, Alan Catlin, was an itinerant bartender, a profession he likens to being a soldier of fortune only much more boring. Usually.The best part of the work was an almost unlimited source of free material for writing projects and his placement in a high risk pool that finally got his life insurance agent off his...read more back once he turned thirty. His work was twice voted among the Most Neglected Books of the year by legendary small press editor Marvin Malone of The Wormwood Review. He is currently the best kept secret in Schenectady N.Y, where he lives, through a series of coincidences, that defy explanation. His most recent chapbook is a sequence of neighborhood poems from March Street press, "Near Death in the Afternoon on Becker Street."

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