Pitchforks on hand, a battalion of flannel’d pianos
tune, stage front, the Radio Stadium.
Off she pulls her Cobain sweater: no more need
to keep the old corpse warm.
Barnstorming with haymakers, fists
of chords, dissonant harmonies, pound face-first
into the shit-faced crowd.
Fertilizers, chemical gems
rile up the unkempt mosh-pit feeding grounds.
Slicing go the scythes.
Bludgeoned, a dropout, unaware of her whereabouts,
Not enough credits to graduate, she’s had it hard
without someone there to push her.