Sea Punks

on spliced nerves of pavement
we are hair-sprayed hard
pink as a disco moon
shining in a glitter squall of rain
apocalyptic as we head bang
past the ruin of beach
screeching over yellow lines
as Vicious vibrates through our throats.
“I wanna be your dog!” in desire
our wheels swerve away
from smalltown saltbox gods,
the vibe of the desolate
bogs reek as the fog tongues
our slimy throats,
our scale-plated writs blue-
shadowed, bruised legs in fishnets
trawling our deeps
like baited fish to be fucked
by rapacious tides. But we are trout
of another caste, lured
by dark twitch of radio waves
synthetically wrecked currents
underground metallic beats
cod-tattooed bones and flesh
grinding into 1984
pricked with the hook of rebellion
swollen lips bite into pins
slice through our ears
pierce lidless eyes
before we can be released.

Robin Durnford spent the eighties confusedly growing up on the west coast of Newfoundland. Her poetry and prose have recently appeared in The Antigonish Review, The Nashwaak Review, and Grain. She now lives somewhat less confusedly in Annapolis Royal, NS.

To view other poems published in this issue please visit Vallum’s website.

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