Union City Blues, what is a boy to do? collab with Poet Speak

There was something about Debbie
Her ripped tops
No bra
Pert nipples
Angelic voice
Punk salvation
Warhol elevation
Sold out arenas
All of us guys lusting
Not getting
But taking a Debbie look alike
Behind the bar
Fantasies
Hardons
Hand jobs from Sheila who had cheap beer breath
While Debbie drank good champagne

Would I ever dare
to whisper my name
across your shoulder blades,
too young to understand
the promise between your thighs
why there was a groin throb which ached?

In New York sunsets
tell the guardian of my eyes to keep them closed
across the Atlantic she blinded me.

Dearest Debbie you are truly Atomic
from one nuclear winter to another
posters on walls may have faded
but to beseech such beauty
took all verbs from my poetry.