concrete wisps around like Sahara sand,
flickers on and off through the eons.
Sweat pulses like the tide,
men sprouting from behind tattered
trucks, AK-47 trigger-depressed.
The bullets rain down like sunlight
through closed eyelids.
At night, we hear the owls snorting crack
and hoodying through cold-parched backcountry.
Sometimes I go with them,
and they hardly glance at me, but they give me water,
and it tastes like shit and like heaven.
No cars, just low-flying swag and
jokes about girls and about blood.
They sneer wide, but I realize that they're all rape
and no kill, except themselves.
Life is a dead sister on a battered car mattress.
Sometimes her blood still drips on me, little girl blood,
but I don't complain. It feels soothing,
like drug-smothered love,
or something. Emotions are painful in this heat;
try to shut them out, try to fall away,
but it was so quick. Gangs are like that,
just a tattered truck and then a breath of fate
and a whimper.
Spoiler! :
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