Tuesday, March 24, 2015

New York City is a Punk Rocker

Tell your daughters, at Port Authority, not to look a man between the eye
He’ll drug her soon into a world of Sugar Daddies, make her work the street

Tell her, tell her to keep her eyes looking straight, arch her back
Walk like a woman, Cosmopolitan; never let a man buy her a drink

Out here the garbage trucks pick up after midnight, dead bodies, Coca Cola
Vodka bottles, cheap summer dresses, business suits from Salvation Army

Like a woman on a bed about to make love she stretches her arms and legs
From the East Village to the South Bronx, the skin heads and gang bangers

Subway cars painted with graffiti; don’t bring a white girl into Brooklyn
You get chased into oncoming traffic, Italian hoods with their baseball bats
Beat you bloody and blue, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time

Tell your sons not to get involved with the NYPD, never jump a turnstile
Tag a wall, piss on the pavement, get nookie in the park, smoking a joint
Walk in groups, start a fight, hang with a ghetto blaster, pack a pistol

Saturday night on the wards of Bellevue and Rikers, they bring them in
Handcuffed, in chains, swollen faces, homeless men and young prostitutes
Picked up off the street for loitering, suspected for stabbing, armed robbery

Like the smell of gas, the city creeps through these walls you call home
Finds you standing in front of a mirror, hopeless, you punch a hole through
Thinking about cutting your wrist, buying a gun to shoot yourself in the head

Love is a stranger; you meet at bars, dark rooms with red bulbs, mirror ball
Heart is a dagger, plunged deep into another, lonely women, desperate men
Soundtracks of broken souls, to rock and roll, Jamaican bars, lead guitars

Liquor pours into night, cigarette after cigarette, tall tales, empty promises
Outside the streets are watching, the air is tall and thin, dry scab, finger nails
Make up polish on her face, caked lipstick too hard to kiss, but you tongue

Inside an apartment, you got The Velvet on vinyl, loud stereo equipment
In the bedroom you lay her down, she undresses her blouse, undoes her bra
Much like other breasts you’ve seen before, you bring them close to your lip

With Nico singing Femme Fetal, you take off your shirt, unzip your pants
She watches while you stand naked, her arms pull you closer to her body
You embrace, a hard embrace, distant and apart yet bound by the glory

Bowie and Iggy, Lou Reed and Leonard Cohen, all that you’ve learned
How to love a woman in this poor city; break her down from limb to limb
Scar of pleasure becomes the orgasm, you fight, the bare-boned fisted

Decking man for looking at you with malice, breaking head with beer bottle
You fight, rolling cigarette rings, the O of your mouth, spread of smoke
She breathes caterpillar breath, look upon her rage, what desire is this

Lydia Lunch in heat, attacking the heart attack, if death should come soon
Where will you live not having paid rent, out in the streets, that heroin hustle
It eats your face, sunk in deep, holes in your hand, long legged, muscular

Some nights she straps it on, wicked bang, sounds of uzis in the background
Drug dealer at the door, rain on a Monday evening, piss drunk after hours
Wasting time watching television, listening to Televison, The Talking Heads

Friends from the neighborhood stop by, you roll up a spliff, smoke them out
Is it some one got murdered or committed suicide, smell of funk in the room
Tomorrow, it is band practice, got a gig at the local bar, making a set list

Sister ran away from home, she’s coming to visit, needs a place to stay
Got sick of Daddy, he liked her pretty; she wants to be an NYC punk rocker

So tell her, tell her there’s a boy at every street corner, looking to do damage
Bring her down to her knees, get a tattoo of his name, make her draw blood

Tell your mama, daddy, nephews and nieces not to come to New York City
She’s a punk rocker with tattoos, listens to Johnny Thunders at CBGB’s

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