even yr ghost is shitty. no crisp bleached linen sheet ghost,
scent of lavender. you fly in here stinking of schwag &
cheap as shit beer. so
dirty yr shiny. frayed as a patch on a crust punk’s bum flap. even
needs punching but my fist’d just float. right through ya. i
think about you more
now than i did when you were alive. did you know. i
donated some copies
of my zine to that raffle. they held in yr name. for yr
memorial fund. to give to yr
kid. you fucking asshole, you had a kid. i keep reliving the times
everything you did and said. that pissed me off. like that night in
the crowded apartment.
christ, it was 4/20. did you know. at first i thought you were
cool. we all shot gunned
blatz n’ turned the empties. into weed pipes. all stoned & drunk
on the cheap
shit. everyone talking about party drugs & butt sex. you
were the only other fucker
in a battle vest. all studded & sloganed. patched & poked. the
turned to Wisco punk rock. we namedropped. back & forth.
Avoided, Pistofficer, even
that real old school shit. Die Kreuzen, Sacred Order. but by the
mentioned Boris The Sprinkler. you had yr dick flag
flying. you said they don’t
count cuz they’re pop punk. pop punk is for girls & fags. well
I’m a girl & I’m
a faggot, I should have. didn’t say. tried instead to ignore
ya. later you said
something like it’s gross when chicks don’t shave. I had glitter
in my armpit
hair. wanted to rub yr stupid face in it. I went out to the kitchen.
so I wouldn’t strangle
ya. asshole, when I found out you were a dad I was like,
ugh, I can’t believe
a chick would even touch you. except to kick yr ass. ugh. to
think of all that toxic
nonsense you were passing on. & that other night. you
smashed a rotten
pumpkin on the downtown sidewalk. in front of the bar we were
stumbling out of.
juvenile move, delinquent. like you were twelve, not thirty-
coulda slipped. n’ you left it for the local business owners to
clean up. later
I heard the owner of that bar was a creep. so I forgave ya.
but knowing you
it wasn’t any kind of righteous. just mayhem. asshole. when you
on Instagram & liked my selfies. I texted L. ew. guess he
I hate his guts. it was kinda funny that you dug me. in my
Ramones shirt. since you hated
pop punk so. much. after I heard you’d killed yrself. I felt
not joy. just morbid. curious, I visited yr Facebook. yr last days
you devolved, dissolved
into paranoia. afraid of yr own shadow-self. sure the world
was out. to
get ya. so now yr shitty ghost just haunts. me. annoying me with
if I hadn’t loathed ya we would’ve. been best friends. we
are. we were? the
same. ever-reckless. drawn to self-demise. faithful only. to the
tools of our destruction.
holding the whole world. at arms length. convinced no one
would ever. for real
love us. the only thing that saved me. is praising. my tender.
loving my holy wounds.
there are so many. things I should’ve asked ya. like hey
asshole, why. did you
do it. like, hey. what did you want. what wounded yr most.
secret, heedless heart.
that you wouldn’t. let yrself. ask for. if you’d just painted.
yr nails sparkle
pink n’ let a girl. peg ya while you listened to pop punk. would
you still be here.
it’s been a year. now. if I could find yr grave I’d slamdance
on it. I’d bring
grave goods. leave offerings. of glitter. & pumpkin guts. I’d
come with my spray
paint & leave you. slogans. 666 world is a fuck. born to die.
late. damn you. we were the last. living punk rockers. now yr
dead & I’m just
a poet. asshole. i wanted to punch ya. but I didn’t. wish
you. ghost. fuck
you. who am I gonna argue about. music with. now?
Jessie Lynn McMains is a poet, writer, zine-maker, and small press publisher; a collector of souvenir pennies and stick & poke tattoos. Their words have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Barren Magazine, Philosophical Idiot, The Ginger Collect, Sad Girl Review, ISAcoustic, Cauldron Anthology, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others; they’re also a contributing writer for Pussy Magic. You can find their personal website at recklesschants.net, their press at boneandinkpress.com, or follow them on Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram @rustbeltjessie
Photo: James Sutton