Pain’s reign. Warm in my hand. We’re a relic
of those vanished beasts: sucked into tar pits,
etched into sandstone cliffs. We’re the brainsick
passions of gods. We listen to The Slits,
Cunt Clones, Hole. We say there’ll be hell to pay,
bastards going down. Promise or threat? Vague
reference to oral sex. Call me ashtray.
All those cigarettes scars: nebula, plague,
splatter acid. Odd shapes: relics tad queer.
Hard-core sex sentience. Wisdom through pain.
All my heroes have been old maids, spinsters,
bachelor girls packing. Those without fear
and old-school with their passion. Our freak’s reign:
thrill in my hand, tremors in your knickers.