all's well in hell,
we're halfway there
and hoping
for sweet release.
so god bless calamity,
catastrophe,
and the weekend warpaths
we forge in light
of finding nothing more.
sultans of swagger,
lit, loaded, lush,
we scrounge quarters
from couches
to get our rounds in
at Fin's,
our eyes swimming in swill,
our hearts
machine gun beating,
our radio crying
"Death or Glory...
just another story."
and tonight
these shadows of our
gutter lives
are shouting out for
redemption.
never relent,
never let them see
the forgiveness
in our forlorn faces,
in our tapped out pockets.
we don't drink
for rites of privilege
or thrill.
we don't drink
to remember
or forget.
we drink because we're
damaged, bored,
and have no more
than all the time
in the world
to kill.