Guns 'N Roses
Axl was my god in seventh grade,
a bullied small kid's king of balls-out rock.
I screamed “I wanna watch you bleed!” and prayed
that Slash would murder every asshole jock.
I inked my wimpy bicep with a bic,
armed myself with blooms and barbed-wire vine.
I dreamed my razor coils would snag a chick,
her throbbing heart ensnared by my design.
Listening to “Sweet Child O' Mine” tonight,
I feel a blossom desperate to break free
below that old destructive appetite
to fuck the system manually, to be
blunt and beautiful, to get real pissed
and leave a rose each place I plant my fist.
By Austin MacRae
Austin MacRae tutors writing at Tompkins Cortland Community College in Upstate New York. Recent work has appeared in Stone Canoe, The Cortland Review, and Rattle. He is the author of two poetry chapbooks, most recently Graceways (Exot Books, 2008), available at http://www.exot.typepad.com/exotbooks.