Pistolero,
a last survivor of mint and blood
awash with basin fresca lite
drunk on blood and mint
spinning down the drain
as one would circumvent the globe.
Hot air ballooons of vehemence
fuel burned for going notwhere
faster than the trigger fingers
of cooler hands and hotter heads.

the romance of retirement is wasted
on the young
joints aged by the artisans
talented in taking lives
carving soles with tickmarks
tracker-keepers of what we owe 
the bastard pagan gods
ascended from hell to earth to heaven
but heaven is so boring.

so here we are.
So there you go.
Married to a misery
when kissing is a chore
cupid's archery prevailed 
in better, brighter years
but now as fate would have it,
our feet cement to the ocean floor
and desperately, we try to drag
the beautiful down with us,
if not in our stead
scacrified for another day
another hangover
another full moon
with each sacrifice we might live on 
to hate the villains we've become.