Maybe You’re Beat

Maybe you’re beat.

Flipped collar, slick hair

greased, overcast obscene,

hold cigarette between crude

lips, cage smiles.

Boys show teeth. Men, callous,

real, stare down butt stems

at smoke trails,

don’t flinch; weakness.

Lug guitar case, amp,

garage to shed, stand, scream;

sit sideways in alcohol,

shoot the breeze

with deadweights, sit on upturned

trash cans,

beat by the gravity of

dreamless life,

vomit every recycled idea, pretentious,

every careless binge, masochistic,

sleepless nights,

stiff with grief, narcissistic recluse,

fear paralytic, parents

who speak at you

leech-life ignorant,

blame you,

leave you and

never

come

back.

But fellow beat’s words

through smoke screens,

laughs, eyes dig, dig it, into your

pierced flesh, under dark lids,

beneath jagged breaths,

see.

They stay; hear; know.

You love them.

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