Band photo, you demand.
We pose on old logging roads,
800 ISO and my father’s machete.
Nightstick. Tripod. Shot list:
Corpse paint! Mud. No:
Sloppy. Don’t be a slob. Reroute:
Stale white suit; shaved throat,
red pimple burn. Vulgar is God.

Seven missed messages:
GIMMICKS. CASH-INS. STUNTS.
We don’t know high love.
We know work: Gaffer tape.
Coffee pots with scalded bottoms.
At night we twist like twins
to curl in one shared skull.

Frayed wires coil on carpet.
Haptic and sad tin can dancehall.
Mix me to the beat of a vape draw
on a reeking mattress. Cheap mic
catches my mad exhale: Red anemone in A.
Autoerotic mirror, oiled and unsung,
I wear silver tinsel, silver chains.
Backing human oscillator,
bangs down, tits up.
Called to be psych priestess caught
sneering on Golgotha, or jaunty Pierot of
sobbing sludge, hell, even Blixa at battle–
but cast chick with percussion sticks.
Sample pad and a bad blowout, too nude,
leaving smears on set mylar like a snail.
Baited from the heavens of UK82 and musique
concrète to be your punching bag.

How did I pedal your Echo Dream?
Kore, how did the great lack snare me?
The last girl turned knobs then fled,
cutting right through the pissy Spector bit,
fake lashes dotting your dirty floor.
I too was a shite supplicant, gigging
with a fat sling of resentment behind my back:
cracked eggs, golden apples. Leading,
taking up too much air in the room,
‘screaming’ us out of venues,
no pity for the vixen drag of blue Lucifer.

Now I bark my own cult of noise,
spit on slackened front-row faces.
Not stare behind a stand while you
groan like a Western Mass indie donkey.
Lay me up with the daemon Devine
in basement karaoke, put me on a litter
at the charnel ground at sunset, carnation
shivering in my callused fret hand;
any sacrifice, save this bad duet.

It’s your factory and my mistake.
You don’t know high love.
The film is thick, the top is glassy.
My finger blurs your face.