The Weekdeads

i enter the room
smokey, can't see the floor
everybody's hair looks bought from
a wig shop
leather jackets, whiskey bottles,
art books block the entrance to
the next room.
the punk kid with speakers held in
both ears, head chipping paint
from the walls says, "these are
not loud enough"
face painted green
ian curtis on a block of ice
girl next to him with a turtle-neck
dress all in white, hair that inspired
the wig metaphor holds his noose,
the way she will hold his c**k
at her place
when they leave.

the cokehead comes up to me
finger across his nose
looks at me
i nod no.
his face looks cranked
oil divides the features
nose like a rusted carburetor
hand on a bottle
looking as it is going
to drop into a million
pieces
and ruin
his
image.

i have enough with
the room and run into
the janitor, 19,
leaving, not doing it for
him. looking for excitement.
says, "lucas i love you"
"i love you, i miss you"
"that's gay, i don't say that to guys"
and he leaves
i walk another direction
perplexed
slightly buoyant in the smoke
now, thinking
"i hope to see
them all
at 40."