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he can’t quite face

drive him to seek refuge

in some mindless

physical encounter –

an uneasy one night stand

or beery barroom brawl.


his firecracker temperament

tamped down by convention

and what can’t be controlled,

explodes in violent fits of pique.


he’s prepared to risk

the next day’s regrets

for that brief moment

of forgetfulness

when it’s simply

skin on skin,

something basic,

primitive, pure,

a way to salve

his soul’s raw torment,

an escape from the

anguish of his every day.


he feels vital and connected

to the blood on his mouth,

his skinned knuckles raw

and head reeling from a punch.