No. 7
Jessica Relyea
prohibited disorder kids
Brandon L. Brown

the prohibited disorder kids
slide greasy
down the street
with their Kool-Aid hair and
black leather jangle
past buildings
with beerbreath doorways,
missing teeth,
staggering like old bums
pissing on yesterday’s news . . .
pitter patter patter
“dudn’t fuckin’ mattah, man,”
the motto when you’re beat—
cigarette burn chancres,
banana bruise knuckles
tenderizing vacant meat,
crunching scattered glass stars
under jackboot feet
beneath the switchblade moon—
“the world’s a fucking tomb, man . . .”
see the prohibited disorder kids
tromping rusted punk rock paradisio
corrosive soundtrack fast,
snuffed out slow
with no god but
white noise.