He confessed in bathroom stalls to men in missionary positions
Received benediction from the tip of a silver needle
"I will submit to no one or nothing except Death itself."
He whispered to himself, such tales of spectacular defeat
Caressing broken rodeo ponies
"They should have carried me across finish lines and into the beds of vapid blondes with sexual ambitions. Instead I’m counting change out of a pickle jar hidden in an empty, mouldering cabinet."
My heroes do not stand. They falter. They are weak. My heroes stare into gun barrels and into the necks of their drinks. But every day, they put their feet on the ground, and stare out the window.
Yet another day, to smolder, to fuck, to stare into the blank eyes of Death and laugh as I piss into the sink.