Editors' Pick

Punk Rock Aphrodite


The client fights his gag                     begs me to stop.

He’s forgotten his word                      the one he chose.

I never had a word.                             His agony blooms & sweetens

like a four o’clock flower.                  Another afternoon of violence

more cries of never-enough.



The tree outside my window              leans left, shaped

by the wind of a ruined city.               I lie flat on my bed,

a paper doll crafted by others.            But now my body is my own,

I can do whatever I like with it.



On stage I bare my breasts,                surf the crowd, they tear my dress

& bruise my legs.                                After the show, I lean on his shoulder

we share cold beer & cigarettes.         He touches my cheek & reminds me

of how tender hands can be.


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