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.
© Les Roberts 2016. All Rights Reserved.