We had bands named the Cut-ups,

Dead Idols, the Flesh Easters—

guitarists named Johnny Smack,

Frank Spike, Wailing Steve-O,

who all burned up the fretboard

as fast as Johnny Ramone.

We praised them all in our zine—

Terminal Illness, circulation 500,

black and white, cut and paste, DIY.

Our revolution was so loud

that Miss Barker called the cops

every $5 show on Saturdays.

The officers tossed us in cars,

whacked bodies with batons,

cuffed Steve-O when he jumped

on a patrol car, smashed the sirens, launched

M-80s at Barker and the police.

We had casualties that summer:

Steve-O locked up

after he threatened Barker with a bat.

Released, he overdosed on heroin

in Pitt Alley, behind Café Roach.

The rest left for schools called State,

quit their bands for full-time pay,

as we stood in autumn rain and lowered Steve-O.

Image by: Patrick Merrit