Punk

Ten faced dogsoldier cannot fix me and starve for a fix children in ghetto and woman on heroin painting african patterns on a blank brick wall, cannot get me they cannot get me thrown away, numb into a wastebasket, a green waste of disposal and a burning punk deep down in the wasteland of new york city graffiti spraypaint over my awake body a mindful of waste and a toothbrush inside  a bathroom, where a girl hides to save the day and the night from stardust. Her dreaming didnt make any sense since her hair was purple, but her jawbone (recognised in a pile of broken skulls and glass)  was called bone by the local dog Misery in a shed in a backyard, where it barks and prospers with a collar with spikes.  A tattooartists place in your neighbourhood, close by, if you need it. A tattoo on your bleeding skin, a rose, a nocturnal bleeding badmouthing rose. Saturated only by spiders, arachne rush throughout the junkies veins. Blood and sex and lust, throughout the night for the teenageed punkrock couple, in the room with the posters and letters from deathrow. A finger in grass, a hand of plastic in a row of punctured veins and cataracts. Her eyes, enourmous and huge, pinball art and eternal radio shows, hooked on meth and hitshows on TV, A glamrock broad in a dull neighbourhood, and want you in my arms.