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.
Why Such Damned Blues?:
by Jason Lancaster Cooney
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