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?