Punk

Pull that hood down over your eyes my friend

and hide away all those sweet pretty lies

for his stunts grant no redemption

from you sorrow-faced hollow folks—

For he’s bound to see your rose

melt away below his red nose

and have it killed in bicycle spokes.
For you know he’s up to no good

when he's invaded your neighborhood

with his smokes and grade school jokes.

And you’ll serenade his masquerade

by placing him on the grass, but when 
the crusade’s been run through know 
he’s just a young man made of glass.

So unless you’ve got your drive from living dead alive

without your garage bands or bandaged hands

you won’t roll with the punches or simply stand and spit.

Unless you sweat and swear

and they all land on "dare"

to experiment with a poison or passion unknown

in your second-story fantasia

crippled up with your aphasia—

you won’t know how often he's alone.

His presence drains his flesh dry the reward

for the plainspoken everyday good guy,

when the matches in his pocket burn

their holes into his thickened skin

that he’ll just refuse to feel.

For sure the fighting there can’t be real

as the tolerance of the air wears thin.

So he’ll find another place to go

and drop out in a fallout shelter far below

where the kids watch war films with a grin.

And you’ll go grenade his arcades

and trace his footsteps back, just to wade

through the school halls to find him in a

bathroom stall trading out his smack.

You’ll find if you try to get behind his eye

that the world was closing up around his knees.

And unless you’ve seen the streets

of children born without their sheets

you won’t see he’s got no one there to please.

And unless you’ve lost your grip

on the extent of your hip

at midnight roaming beneath the fenced-off trees,

with your renegade reasons

so regardless of the seasons

you won’t see why his life’s a giant tease.

So your idle infestation deems the punk

worthy of probation because he stunk

it seems—but he’s an uncultured chore

and the good rules must be blunt,

Just like how before the heaters come out

every fighter has his drought

until the energy in the rain ruins the runt!

But he’s still fartin’ around on Main

and feels he’s washing down the drain

when he’s bolting like a fox run in the hunt!

So betray the sun on his parade

while your years are fading,

and see if this useless wombat youth is worth

the toothless truth you're trading.

So unless you think you’re right you’re tangled up in spite

and you’re fighting no matter what the others say,

and unless those who share your mind

have been swallowed up—gone blind,

you won’t see why he’s still not one to stay.

Unless he grabs your ground

and leaves without a sound

and you’re warring nonstop with your tantrums—

Unless you got sick and twisted

and they want YOU enlisted,

you won’t see why at noon his darkness comes.

So go make the kiddo jealous of light

without the attitude of a sympathetic insight,

and waste plenty now on his every bone

while he stones his brain as an answer

to the fatalism of his day—

See he’s accepting of the end with delay

and temptation rotting like a cancer,

stinking of his Mary Jane pouches

left on his loft’s couch where he slouches

low to go watching the TV dancers,

gritting his teeth slow and going for a crusin'

down below, so you can see he’s got

his right hand on his demise while some

hide in the pride of a modest guise.

They’re shop patrons who go at gas stations

asking stupid questions like a hipster on drugs,

wearing commercial Ts and shorts cut off at the knees,

cigarette puffing, scratching at fleas

while under the cover of their stony bed like slugs.

They answer only to the guitar sage

and go without the nobility of their age

who act so smooth, hang dry, joke and belch

with their lewdness juvenile

when the nighttime is hostile

for the daytime’s not worthwhile to say

punch lines in guile for the lawman’s behalf!

But see past his vain and see he’s in pain

when he’s bathed in that TV light.

See him slouch down and go wiping his eyes

like the day’s shell is any good disguise

when he’s home all alone and

watching his shows all night.

He’ll be counting the changes he'll make

and be thinking too about loving right—

about where it’s all going that someday

when summer turns to fall in spite—

about finding a future before it’s too late

and how much more of this self-abuse

a young man of twelve can take.

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems