Exterminating Angels by Alan Catlin

Once they had been someone’s
little girls, off to college in preppie
clothes and jeans, who were,
by junior year looked as if she’d
been kidnapped by Rastafarians
who braided her white gold waist
length hair into dreds, clothed
them all in Marley, t-shirts, no bras
allowed, and distressed jeans so torn,
the fabric was more for display
purposes than as clothing.
All of them acquired eye brow
and nose rings, diamond studs
where the rings weren’t, ear piercings
and bud tattoos, lots of them, everywhere.
If the punk band they formed had a
permanent name it would be:
Exterminating Angels and the one
chord they could play would be backed
by a Ziggy Stardust refugee drummer
on speed, a blind keyboardist, and
a sax player who had won an Andre
the Giant lookalike contest.
Their voices amid all that cacophony
was an evil shriek that electrified
crowds, leaving them cold as graveyard
crypt art on a foggy night, their black
angel wings enfolding where those
listening were standing, stiff in a drug
induced haze, in damp overhead lit
spotlights, in cellar bars with no windows,
no in case of fire exits, no ventilation,
just a small portion of hell’s half acre
to lie down in.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of misfitmagazine.net. His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

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