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Scorched & Bleached.

Dimly-lit basement. Atmosphere
thick with cigarette smoke.

I pretend not to like it.

Beautiful, hard, rough
riffs, solos,
drum beats, bass lines

still ringing in my ears
like all my inner
thoughts, so rampant,
and my memories?

Intrusive and revealing,
frightening:
drowning out everything.

Beautiful, hard, rough
riffs, solos,
drum beats, bass lines

considerately killing
all else
so I can hone in on this
as they echo
in my mind

Knee-high boots and funky
socks, legs bend
at the knee
to either side
of me. Mad tongues,

soft lips and a well-needed
spiritual cleanse: passion’s release
from the dark, twisted
and surreal abyss of strange

memories, identity
confusion and dismal
revelations.

First scorched,
now bleached.

And she, my white dove
flying out
of the carcass
of a crow. It’s so

unbelievable.

And if it takes enduring
a cocktail
of my personal hells
to get back
here for good,
to secure her

as mine
and me as hers
as we continue to respect
the loves and lives
of one another

it’s so fucking worth it.

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