The face of Kurt Cobain's body covered over with a black leather jacket.
The face of Kurt Cobain when he slips his Seattle arms into the arms of the black leather jacket.
The face of Kurt Cobain's fans all wearing black leather jackets and holding candles and crying.
The faces of cops in black leather jackets at Kurt Cobain's concert.
The face of Dave Grohl and Kris Novoselic in their black leather jackets.
The face of Courtney Love in her black leather jacket, hiding the track marks.
The face of Kurt Cobain spending thousands upon thousands of dollars on black leather jackets.
The excited faces of anarchy cheerleaders wearing black leather jackets in Kurt Cobain's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video.
The faces of mothers having babies in the back seats of convertibles while Kurt Cobain's "In Bloom" plays on the boom box that sits on a black leather jacket.
The faces of aolescent Asian girls in black leather jackets bum-rushing Kurt Cobain.
The face of kurt Cobain when his daughter is all grown up in a black, leather jacket.
The face of Kurt Cobain's mother when she gets the news.
The face of a corn beef sandwich eaten by Kurt Cobain.
The face of Kurt Loder when he reports that Kurt Cobain killed himself.
She came stomping through the lobby like a giant.
I thought an earthquake had hit, but in Florida?
Maria, the red-suited receptionist, was bleeding from the corner of her mouth.
Tom, my boss, asked, “What the hell is going on here?”
I thought an earthquake had hit, but in Florida?
Kerry shot a bird at my boss and punched him in the mouth
After he asked, “What the hell is going on here?”
She was making her way towards me, dragging Maria with her, like a rag doll.
Kerry shot a bird at my boss and punched him in the mouth.
“Where is he, I’m going to kill him,” I heard her scream as I coward behind my desk.
She was making her way toward me, dragging Maria, the battered receptionist with her.
My co-workers shivered in fear for their lives.
“Where is he? I’m going to kill him,” I heard her scream as I coward behind my desk.
“Tell me where he is,” as she held Maria up to her face of razor-sharp teeth,
My co-workers shivering in fear for their lives.
She held up her broken arm.
“Point to where he is,” as she held Maria up to her face of razor-sharp teeth.
She trampled down the hall like Frankenstein’s monster
With Maria’s arm still pointing stiffly in my direction.
Kerry dropped the receptionist to the floor and lifted my desk with one hand.
She trampled down the hall like Frankenstein’s monster.
“I know you were at my house last night”, she said.
I couldn’t believe she lifted my desk with one hand.
“I smelled your cheap, K-mart cologne in my bed sheets,” she yelled.
“I know you were at my house last night”, she said.
“Stay the hell away from my husband.
“I smelled your cheap, K-mart cologne in my bed sheets,” she yelled.
She lifted me in mid air and laughed when she saw that I had pissed my pants.
For there are too many queerboys
Crying nightly, like wolves, in parking lots.
All those cars on a Saturday night
Where old men sit armed with hard-ons.
For there are too many teenage boys
Walking lustfully and loveless down the dark street of Park Avenue
Where old men sit in their vans armed with hard-ons,
Where cops hide out, unmarked in plain clothes.
Walking lustfully and loveless down the lonely street of Park Avenue
Are preachers and teachers and college boys who seek the joys of gay sex
Where cops hide out, unmarked in plain clothes
Waiting to catch and cuff prominent figures in the buff.
Preachers and teachers and college boys seek the joys of gay sex
On the hardwood benches in Tom Brown Park,
But cops await to seal the fate of prominent figures in the buff
With their stainless steel handcuffs.
On the hardwood benches of Greene Peck Park,
Sits stark naked, a man named Clark,
Who doesn’t know that cops get ruff with their stainless-steel handcuffs
To those who prance around like flamingoes in their birthday suits.
Sitting stark naked is a man named Clark
Who is about to catch heat, by a cop on the beat
Capturing those who prance around like flamingoes in their birthday suits
Down the streets of Park Avenue.
He’s about to catch heat by a cop on the beat
But to get this down, in this here town,
To keep things quiet as a mouse,
Tallahassee needs a bathhouse.
Shane Allison has been published in over sixty magazines and journals including online journals such as Gnome and The Doomed City. His first book, Black Fag, is now available from Future Tense Books.