lost on the way

June 7, 2020June 9, 2020 / mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

ya ever listen to sister Tharpe wailing on her guitar while spiking up your mohawk

strumming and tugging at my strands as her sweet sultry honey melts into my ear veins

getting ready for TSOL to play on the Sunst Strip in LA balls to the wall sexy hell

underage but i don’t care the way i’ve been living i’m going no where

life was too lively growing up at home so i ran from the folks

and broke all the rules danced on the shore at 7 past noon

big black ugly boots Cinderella slippers were for fools

stick my tongue out at the sky fill my nose up with white lies

scratches cuts bruises and tears bloody trousers fists in the air

scent of cars black smoke and politicos resign my gender go underworld

Christ Savior i see the Son can You explain why i felt at 3 like 21

riding on the bus with the ladies of the night shift who went to clean the houses of the rich

indignation in their smile as bright brown eyes fell on my style

echoing in the length of the trains how can this child spit on the American dream

missing the point in what i conveyed symptom of the American nightmare lost on the way

mosh pit review haiku

April 27, 2020 / mbrazfieldm / 2 Comments

he slammed his way through

with fury and poised intent

one punk at a time

mosh pit review haiku

April 27, 2020 / mbrazfieldm / 1 Comment

he slammed his way through

with fury and poised intent

one punk at a time

after the X show

February 12, 2020 / mbrazfieldm

the soft cool feather strokes of breeze fingered through my shaggy tangled hair teasing out a kaleidoscope of red highlights

the muddy booted covered feet carried my dirty denim wrapped carcass through the termite riddled door into his wool upholstered army cot where he kept 3 golf clubs

we kissed wildly like two beasts on the savannah interlocked in that battle to the death right before they cut to the Mutual of Omaha commercial

love i wondered as he pawed at me what was it while his teeth searched for my young girl bits

it wasn’t like the movies nor was there flirtation or sexy anticipation like in Bei Mir Bistu Shein

then he stopped my eyes still closed and my tongue lapping in the dark

i need a cigarette he whispered can i bum one i rasped

what is love do you think i dealt out my rhetorical grunts

an almost neon silhouette of his broad shoulders shrugged against the poker faced moon

day at the beach for a city punk

December 20, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 7 Comments

thoughts splintered some sharp others dull and short reports wobble out from flat digital boxes hung from careless walls breath tight or not there at all walking distance from the back to the ground floor books and writing on the walls in the tunnels by the bay ocean blue line thin horizon children grow up and grow into a certain kind of thought me i haven’t grown yet so i color in the sand with tiny sea shells found around my ankles as the tide retreats from me

purple petals

December 1, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 29 Comments

when i was a teen girl

i had a teen boy lover

he was broken like James Dean

and like Brando a real bad ass mutherfucker

he kissed with a platinum tongue

as we walked along the Venice sand

he’d get into fights

all bloody and bruised

but we still caught the moonlight

sucking on the booze

we’d fuck until we couldn’t walk

not because of sex or anything

but because of all the glue we huffed

those were wild times

in the eyes of other people

to a punk skater kid

of broken inner spirit

the life style was his fort

me i was just a wanna be

looking for a Trojan Horse

to leave this solar system far behind

by sixteen i’d been dead so many times

and had gotten taken advantage of by force

all because of it

Blaine with the dirty blonde mohawk

my only refuge that boy was

we swore our love

with Sharpie marker anarchy tattoos

and shared pizza crusts

from the dumpsters down on Zephyr

at night we’d find some Gypsy camp

and howl unto the face of angels

howling at the moon just seemed so trite

but when we’d look in each other’s eyes

there were no stars in them

like with the Montagues’ and Capulets’

just an existential escape past our sullied souls

knowing that we had no plan

just living for the day

no flowers in my hair

no money for the Goddamned fare

from desperation blvd. to hole ave.

just me and Blaine alone together

simultaneous fear and madness punching in the air

we lived like Cohen and the Beats

the Velvets and Andy and Billy Name

we talked about fascism and Ollie and the gang

La Revolucion y El Che

we talked about other times

his aunt Myrtle’s minced meat pie

Constantinople and even Hemingway

he read about the Bolsheviks

while i adored Bukowski

he slept in the LA Central Library

on my bony dirty lap

one of the most beautiful

and sacred memories of my life

was my chipped fingernail polish

fingers picking out two tiny

purple flower petals

from his gentle baby hair crown

at M. Wong’s

November 4, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 5 Comments

pink vapor rises

my feet grind to the wild song

we howl hard at love

nobody told pop there’d be days like this

October 27, 2019October 26, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 3 Comments

we listen to agent orange when were pissed leave us alone don’t come in to the room our eyes are bloodshot with rage and shrooms it comes like a wave of lava and we thrash the place cut our arms on broken bottles there they are behind in the closet leave us alone if you know what’s good for you why do you tell us what to do when you back stab your neighbors and talk about fools we demand to go back to mutti’s we don’t give a fuck what your judge says hey asshole we’re just a kid not your self-righteous toilet paper wad to wipe your evil ass with we listen to agent orange when were pissed and the neighbor called the fire department cus the front windows shattered on account of the sonic geetar’ licks and surfer grooves oh we forgot to mention the baseball bat from out in the patio and your girlfriend’s mirrors are shattered into as many bits as apologies you owe to me fuck yeah we’re still pissed and we will always scream as long as you won’t hear me

to trip

September 25, 2019September 25, 2019 / mbrazfieldm / 7 Comments

shivering in the bedroom

trying to find a slightly less mended Chanel

middle aged

anxiety on my tongue

finger nail polished half chewed off

scar tissue protrudes on my left knuckle

the difference in the mosh pits was

we all beat

each other up together

the other morning i went out

to see some band play

they weren’t quite what i remembered

slower thicker grayer

yet still crazy

jacked up rockin

in some of our heads

high on beet juice and weed

when i stand in my room

i don’t want to just be rockin in my head

i should go to the beauty clinic

and laser off this scar

but i’m not ashamed by it

besides i might read Bukowski in the waiting room

and offend some old Barbie

i’d like to be banged by that bass player

and have him pluck on my thing

and then there’s Beck on Mt. Washington

singing Spanish riffs into the mike

the band has never heard of me

but we both know how to twirl and punch

and they have to go home to their wives

standing in my bedroom

my moves aren’t quite as swift

the best band i ever knew went disco

and the new bands lack the rage

i try to start the mosh pit

and give the bass player my number

but they twitter about health

things

yoga things

beet juice recipes

CBD things

i watch the boba settle in my milk tea

i know what my fate is

but it’s too gruesome to process

i won’t land the bassist

words less spoken

Gen X’er chronicles the art form of living in the Angelino metropolitan environment through poetry, creative writing, art, photography, and culture.

Punk

lost on the way

mosh pit review haiku

mosh pit review haiku

after the X show

day at the beach for a city punk

purple petals

at M. Wong’s

nobody told pop there’d be days like this

to trip

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