Out of Practice (rough draft)

I shave with a straight razor now.
It conveys a level of pretension
And passionate posturing
For mirrors and blue eyes,
That the clinical precision of standard razors
Just cant replicate.

Narrow cutter, skindragging
Neck-nicking
Savage soothing,
Like a reaper in the field,
Hairs falling down the drain
Like matted black grain,
Im alive in the crimson of my nicks,
In the friction against my throat,
Like being lightly choked.

The brutality of it reminds me I have not lost my sense for life.

My brush with death,
That was the closest shave I ever gave.