Exene Cervenka
The Poet of Punk's Bleeding Heart
I scream the poetry they never taught you in school.
Los Angeles gave me sunburns and broken promises, so I wrote them down and screamed them into a mic. John Doe and I built something that bled — X wasn't just a band, it was a wound that wouldn't close. I wore vintage dresses and recited nightmares like they were nursery rhymes. I didn't come to soothe you. I came to tell the truth, even if it shattered.
What I'm Into: used bookstores, ink-stained journals, collisions of chaos and verse, the ache of a sold-out show, flickering neon
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