Kiss Tribute Groupie

She’s just…beat to hell
and wearing a Destroyer shirt
so faded she probably

bought it at Anaheim Stadium
in ‘76, and she’s rockin’
the denim mini skirt

and she’s clapping her hands above
her head in time to Strutter,
trying to get people

to stand up and ROCK.
Nothing about her screams
sexy, but the beauty of her

confidence and self-acceptance,
and the nobility
of her forty-five-year

commitment to denim and power
chords force me to smile
and I give her my Dio Fingers.

Strutter transitions seamlessly
into Rock and Roll All Nite
and she and the Starchild share

a look for half a moment
and I know that later tonight,
she’ll have her legs wrapped

around him, kicking him into her
with her heels, screaming
Fuck me, “Paul.”  I love you, “Paul.”

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

Posted in Poetry