Edgar Poe’s night of the mugging

It never leaves

until at the very moment

you are in need

of one more dose

right up your nose

courage can be a real bitch

in sticky outings

out in the middle of no fucking where

in the middle of the night

a flat tyre shaped baggage

pulling you in its grasp

you remember all

your life lessons

cataloguing them

sorting them by a hexadecimal code

but nothing works

your mama never taught you

what to do

when you feel the brine

down your spine

and when your throat

starts to itch for a measly droplet

that won’t arrive

you are wondering whether

to call your mama or your girl

moments like these

bring clarity in a man’s life

when he’s about to be mugged

at knife point or straddled

by three different breeds

of violent men

in a darkly lane

I know you wish to

crumble and go back up

like a foetal shaped ball

but you’ll be better

for it

or maybe you won’t

who knows what

men do to other men

on nights like these

when the moon

is full and the fright

just beginning to grow

my faith, my grief

Edgar Poe’s crow

all in the mix

of a thrilling risk

to watch

men tear each other apart

and dance

naked and triumphant

on the heels of a crazy

new dawn.

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