for John Lydon

There are no poppies that grow
in Potters Field, row upon row
If there were
I would have squeezed all the opium
from them
Even the rats and mice wear black lipstick
Everyone here is welcome
Except obituary cases
from the New York Times

I am the empire of death
the crucifix of life
I am calling with thirty pieces of silver
from St. Michael
I am the empire of death
I am the ghost of Sid Viscious

Outstretched, covered in clay
Amid the rotting of encaustic paintings
Along with snails, brown bombers and bees wax
that smell through the casket with
Never Mind the Bullocks emblazoned
in refreshingly vile green and pink
on my pine encrusted coffin

I am not Jesus Christ
for he is much too famous
I am the empire of death
I am not buried beside Margaret Thatcher
I am the ghost of Sid Viscious
I mean business

You will not find me in Pere Lachaise
You will not find me in your tourist map
I am among the empire of death
A casuality of empire

The tatoo of my first kiss is not as deep
as it once was
The puncture marks on my arms
were made by Lord Nelson long ago
Nortorius drug fiend that he was
I am frail, I am human
A mirror where we can mock in, rejoice in
Lousy Republican assholes in their Lamborghinis

There was an old album by Bob Dylan
strapped to my leather boots
Everything was burning at my belt buckle
a bottle of cognac, little known saints
The Apostles, Leningrad

Only dirty old riffs and frets survive Potters Field
they pop with Fender amps and warm beer
I am in good company, surrounded by
Sister Savage, Bored Suburban Youth
Dead Milkmen and Vomit Thrower

There aree one million unknown people
buried with me here in the Bronx
All of them punk rockers and punk poets
who no one in their right mind would claim
as their ancestors
Free housing for derelicts and drug addicts
It is a vacation paradise invented by Tom Waits
in the spirt of true democracy
I have found myself a home

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