The Snap and the Set
And how many fell
for that same broken
love song? Of knuckle,
of split lip, forgotten lyrics,
same shit different day,
adrenaline-junkie breakdowns?
Do they fall for the dance
or the destruction? For blood-spatter
constellations, for the head-split
seronade? I’ve seen men call
concrete their canvas, their
bottle their muse-
when we’ve Pollocked every
sidewalk, what will they sing for, then?
2 thoughts on "The Snap and the Set"
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Wow. I love this.
So many great lines in this poem. Whew! Nice job! Thanks.