PUNK POETRY: I KILL ROCK STARS by Paul Edward Costa

I first performed words I’d written
with punk bands
in stale-beer smelling
small clubs downtown,
or any random spot we found:
a half-finished internet cafe,
community centres, somebody’s basement,
the movie theatre’s parking lot,
or a rented karate dojo.

It wasn't winning a bank-sponsored 
Promising Young Writer of Tomorrow prize
with ceremonies and dignitaries giving praise.

If you’d like to unlock my inner punk rock singer,
pick a human being and deify them in front of me 
say you actually can't believe
you're really in their presence 
and my eyes will roll so far back
I'll be inspecting my brain stem.

I'm not a high modernist
waxing poetic on BBC.
Honestly, I feel more affinity
for the Sex Pistols saying fuck on TV,
dissing royalty,
or Johnny Rotten
pulling back the curtain 
on Britain's beloved Jimmy Saville
and when the predatory celebrities of this world fall
I’d rather not be seen
shaking their hands in photographs.

My sympathies lie
with whoever’s struggling against the odds,
rise through concrete terraces,
as opposed to sculpted idols atop them,
and before you cheer or agree with me,
please check your skin
for any cold patches of stone spreading out.

Where you see glowing prophets,
I see Lovecraftian eldritch gods.
Where you see superheroes,
I see beings
hovering above accountability.

I'm not a quantum-powered comic character;
I'm closer to a battered street ninja
battling out of breath with Eskrima sticks,

Undefeated pro fighters don't inspire me,
but those who’ve won some, lost some,
without a championship belt,
who went on past their prime,
never ducking, fighting anyone,
any place, anywhere, anytime –
those are stories with which I identify.

and while I'm definitely dedicated 
to the high table's destruction 
I'm not smooth-moved,
suited-up John Wick;

I'm more John McClane,
barefoot, bleeding,
freaking out, and foul mouthed.

So to every untouchable legend,
everyone beyond reproach,
everyone never taken to task,
everyone who had the cavalry arrive,
everyone richly rewarded by currently installed systems
which they won't admit beat down others while boosting them,
everyone so unconditioned to criticism
they crumble like dry dog shit in the wind,
every discount Byron
abusing power imbalances
to creep on femme poets,
and every highly placed person
who's essentially asked me,
"Do you really think you have a chance against us,
Mr. Cowboy?"
I only have one thing left to say:

"Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers."

--Paul Edward Costa