Free Ride

I'm a lunatic
even between
copious cups
to drink.
You're a looker
of illusory faith.
Half slave to flattery
between us
It works.
The small amount of
time necessary to
call it a victory
we hold onto
while falling through
trap doors of chance.
We stumble
between pantomime
and whims of desire
at the heart of a chaos
we cannot deny.
Refusing to resign
to anything.
Yet every risk
courts death in
drunken motorcycle
rampages or
picking up dangerous
lovers with the part
of them dead
that wants company.
I see it/I see us
ready for our closeups
face down on concrete
of a treacherous highway
waiting with all the
smiles in its curves.
Or it’s a squalid hotel room
where the crime
scene photographer's flash
will be the last bit
of fame we'll know.
But at least that
last ambulance
ride is free.