Red streaks in the wake
of punches thrown
a deep menacing tone
trickles out of the throat
of the city.
Thrift shop samurai swords
clip the chord’s extra slack
at the edges of freshly stringed
guitars. The songs they play
are as violent as the fights
they’ve scored the background of
and no you haven’t heard them.
Her legs are what they think
about when attempts are made
at perfecting the sharp simplicity
of the blade.
The world of warriors is now
a planet of trade and we’re afraid
of both the future and the past.
There is no money in making
anything to last and that includes
the ground you stand on
while you drink in all
the failures of the people
you looked up to from before.

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