another year older

just keep punching, apollo

soldiers of the night call to me
from the street lights.
much rather to march away
with them singing their hymn
to war and sex,
rather than to stumble back
to the cave of sober love.
get out there, f**k things up!
to watch the circles form
around the dancing man
in a dirty grey coat
puffing his lungs out on
cheap cigarettes.
to fall asleep with the rising sun,
a life of a pirate and king
never wanting for anything.
how long ago those years seem.
the ominous red light
blinking off in the distance.
the tower beckoned to us
and captured us within her walls.
a mistake? no, good sir.
for we only have a pocketful
of change for the jukebox,
and the regret of bras
we could have unhooked
or the joints we might have smoked
will forever tug upon our thoughts.
yet, the blood we spilled,
the w****s we swindled,
and the hangovers we suffered
will be sufficient
to comfort ourselves
as we lose our minds and souls
to the great absurdity.