you don’t know the first thing about joy division

that moody face – the jacket that says cigarettes;

you don't smoke but my mother wouldn't like it.

          stripes up all the inside,     some circus flair,

for the cool-guy look,       long stares high collars –

        belonged to someone else                        and you play punk 

but i know how much it cost.             you didn't rip

                  those jeans.    store-bought crap;         frays an oasis 

       of construction.                   wear it for seventeen hours yet?

                                                wear it past the sheen-shein hip-bone crack?

                                                wear it and think you look 'rad', factory

                                hand tocks another dime past midnight? box-cutter 

goes slick -              i think you look rad              - that new load of sin 

    on the azalea banks,            fingering the grin of a knife,

  you so carefully removed from its chiffonier.