Glam Rock Jacob Boyd Three beers before the Nastys melt the stage, Sticks digs out a pipe & passes it. His parents’ grass straddles my tongue, lax as a noose. On the smoking deck “Two-Headed Dog” smears blues with rouge & the boys shivering in lipstick shout down to a bum. Bill’s dragon tat steams, it climbs from under his black denim collar, hissing in snow. We wear our myths & feel immortal, complex, except Cleo always strips the paint, dancing so fiercely for power riffs a hundred copperheads writhing in her hair could not ward our stones away. Inside, they’re tuning up. A transient note stalls in the amp & purrs its pure fuck you to the future. |