Poem: Pounds Per Square Inch

Hurricane-synapse days are real assholes, mainliner,
No poetry, just meat, just lust, just the oil-slicked ink-seed,
Bass falls to the metal floor again and me I scrape the sky,
dark scarlet slips down the drying skin, no scent finer,
cockroaches and cigarette smoke wreathe the bloody-bright deed,
Face walls crashing down, salt-tears dust-dancing and I just let fly,
Numbers sing to the heartbeat pulse of my new shiner.
Memories of my childhood made apocryphal by need,
Lace crawls on my skin like a to-die-for sin, truth made a lie.