PuNk cHicks:

Gaudy, awkward,
almost geeky,

but with hard edges
as sharp as knives.

Compellingly raw:

a delight in disorder
wrapped in leather and spikes
and pumped on amphetamine

untouchably

pale, pasty,
sunken,
a washed and saturated blue like the eyes of Appalachian children
raised on potatoes,
sullen:

(what the fuck is that? PUNK CHICKS DON’T SMILE(

ghosts
(angels perhaps
(the residual effect of some failed future.

Jacque: I love driving into the underlying nothingness. I love carrying it over to Ambig’s project,