We are fifteen and have no idea
what our bodies can do. We play guitar
in the garage, we are becoming
new animals. We remove shirts,
pull our hats low over our eyes,
Sharpie the mark of the beast
onto one another’s flesh.
We are young lions bellowing
into a sleeping neighborhood
hoping for someone to shout back
in anger / love / we don’t know the difference.
We are tomcats on the prowl,
we need an adult to buy us beer.
His name is Slash and his guitar
sounds like the devil’s name howled
backwards at midnight on MTV,
sounds like a lover’s voice
whispering our own reckless names.
Our chests grow slick with sweat.
His name is Slash and he is everything.