Way down South, at times, you’ll taste that metal
in the mouth. It rises up—burning gall—
in the back of the throat, while the blood swells
and turfblack bakes in Kentucky sun and smells.
One can hear ringing in the ears, death-bells.  

It ain’t dying! Let it bring you alive.
Make like those saintly martyrs, soon to die.
Taste taints of metal, crack your teeth and dine.
Break your face off in between the white lines.
Haste it like you’ll die, seek and ye shall find.

Take, give, fight. Just fucking mean it. You’ll be fine.
Aches, those pains, it hurts because you’re so alive.