A Martyr for Privilege
I have been kissing shotgun shells
With the same ambition
A whore uses,
If not for my gag-reflex
Would’ve been down my throat
Poor Western Boy.
What use is courage?
When it’s wasted on
Measured for pleasure.
When some walk 10 miles
To get a taste of filtered sewage.
My life insurance
Will be the bottle of whiskey
Found in my frozen fingers.
As I lay stiff
Under the overpass.
Neal Cassady’s hand,
As the train clacks
Down the rail line.
We’ll still be searching
For those kicks.
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Comments about this poem (A Martyr for Privilege by A.j. Binash )
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