It can hardly be said he lived his life at a canter

hurling warm shit at the scattering crowd

running naked as a wild man

while from behind in a firestorm

music wages war on the senses

ricochet rhythms take no prisoners.


It was punkicide at the end of days

conflagration in a concrete bunker

convulsions of the will

in a dancehall on the shores of the Styx

bowing out in a flourish of hate

like a dark invocation to an American Dream.


All smack and no trousers in the end

as a death foretold his was overdue

lying in state in the murder junkyard

casket as white as oblivion's flare

piss stains on the headstone

where nihilists come to pay their respects.

October 2019