St. Punk of Jaded Urge


The tatted arms were nothing but a contrived ruse, camouflage for an urban blind, a hunt, a stalking.

Sleeved with ink, fueled with endorphins, driven by the waft of pheromones and alcohol and simple, unmitigated vitriol, I strike.

Understood by few, connected to fewer, I focus on you. Your pulse a droning, drowning focal point, your scent a beacon and a signal. May the powers that be have mythical mercy upon you, I will have none. And, sweetheart, you’ll still beg my shallow, jaded, punk rock facade for more and more and more. Like a needle to an aching vein, my taste of the product will keep you enraptured, enslaved, addicted. Hopelessly. Chase that goddamned dragon, honey! It. Will. Free. You.

We will laugh at the blurry world, a half-second behind its plasticine shimmer. Letting the hormonal reality of our private riot give notice to the sheep, the rabble, that WE, our union, it is what sticky, wanton history is made of! An affirmation to those who follow, that flesh is the power, the justice, the language of the free. Of the underground, the counter.

They may point and scowl at the art that marks our flesh, yet when our flesh touches, melds, our flesh forms the glyphs of lust and triumph and the poetry of unrefined, undefined base urge…realized.

Hail ecstasy, hail hedonism, hail life.

Fuck the rest. They deserve naught.

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