Thursday, May 11, 2017

Fury Black Grip

I trapped Cyndi Lauper in my locker
outside the computer lab with its black screened IBMs,
blinking cursors broken glass crashed cars piled up
Lyndon LuRoche and Dukakis, secret notes
buried in the margins of every blue-lined sheet
of college rule in every three-ringed binder
taped to every surface, rustling in the hot breath
of thousands of Middle School girls
in jean skirts and pantyhose
The Like a Virgin LP on display at K-Mart
I don't remember my own clothes,
every mirror plastered with pimples
Don't remember my voice ever changing, 
just all the masturbating and of course
the learning to curse,letting the words spit and slap
and loving it, like holding a knife
like the Fury Black Grip I found stuck in a log
in the woods beside the Little Lehigh
one one of my excursions further and further from home
Opening and closing the blade, I cracked my best
Bill Murray grin, rolled my eyes, said fuck.
Felt in control of something. 
Back in the tiled corridors, thus armed,
I still blushed and sweated in the presence of the girl
with the ankle boots and Simon LeBon haircut,
still tripped and crashed backwards over
my own tongue.
I could hear my heart inside the locker
of my chest banging to get out
but I'd forgotten the combination,
never did remember it, it's probably
still there, shriveled and starved
with Cindy, sadly whispering
the words to She Bop there in the darkness.

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