Tequila Punks on the Moon

A fish keeps staring at me from behind blood black eyes.
How many centuries have these huns been shitting sausage into that river.
I shovel oily forkfuls and lubricate with a bottle of beer
featuring a german baby boy crawling out of half full stein.
I sit Across from Heidi, her bleach blonde dreadlocks dangle over her perky breasts,
both careless and confidently conceal her age.
She tells me she had never, will never be a wage slave.
I believe her. I believe in her. She hands me a spliff and I study her fingers,
under the table I imagine black Doc Martens, eight eyelet maybe fourteen,
hot pink laces strung horizontal. I want to crawl up the laces. Peel off those boots
and suck her steel toes one at a time, while she gets
drunk on Molotov cocktails. Laughing, shouting through glimpses of nicotine
stained porcelain: the Wall, risking jail time for a Black Flag record.
I’ll tell her Hasselhoff would have torn it down years ago if he knew it was hiding her.
I imagine this would make her pink cheeks turn red.
Once a Mercedes Bens came down the street in front of her squat, stopped at a
red light she climbed onto the hood,
hiked up her black and crimson patchwork skirt,
spread her hardy thighs and
rained piss on the shiny gold calf;
shouting: “One Two Three! Kill the Bourgeoise”