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.