deepundergroundpoetry.com
Dead-End Alley
"The end is disgusting," she says, remembering them,
pinched faces in NOLA, grey with wayward inevitability.
No words illuminate this dead-end alley called humanism.
Layered scars blurred their aspirant tattoos,
permanent ink on fleeting lives. "We have a gig tonight!"
Smack needles outranked numen this side of Seventh Ward.
The tracks marked the finish — all points due south.
Death calls shotgun and navigates, every time.
Maps inscribed black on black, but - damn! - the music was good.
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