Punk
Each squeezed rancid
bellow; indulged, repulsed,
postured as a knuckle shove
of coloured fat slabs of green -
the anatomy of steam, of infrastructure -
is punked,
turned to believe;
greased with hips from kohl
smudged gloves, smitten cloaks
of coal on sweat,
pistol gripped,
faced into a dying sun.
The animation of gas towers,
rent collectors, veins,
bullet trains of soviet tense;
pulses cabled through a camera
of lies, lies and videotape
says you’re a model, baby,
for originality -
just tilt your cheek, your PhD,
colour this grey world
with your photography,
give us your name
that you have already a label
and package, airbrush,
your sixteen
year old self; the colour of your eyes –
that love we need to farm,
we need to pickle jar
to profile and call punk.
Marianne Louise Daniels
Wed 25th Sep 2013 14:44
thank you for reading.