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Back when Lotus
played lead guitar in Vicious Angel
and Shane sang
about surfing on heroin
to a packed house
of High School kids
at the Copper Fox,
I was in love with a girl
from the wrong side of the tracks.
I’d wear swimming goggles like Lemmy
and crawl through her bedroom window
on Saturday nights
to watch Headbanger’s Ball.
She had feral brown hair
and eyes like a movie theater
you could take refuge in
when the bombs
rain down.
Her mother did jigsaw puzzles
of mountains and lakes
and had a huge, flea market ashtray
crammed with Camels.
We’d sift the gallows fodder
and pick out the half-smoked cigs,
drink Vodka bootlegged
from her father’s liquor cabinet,
spinxlike spurts
that riddled and roared
while Riki Rachtman
cued up
wasted years
and god of emptiness;
my balls, by this time
banging hard and heavy,
my hand thrashing
down her midriff
looking for the sunset strip
Kerrang!
