On Smashing a Guitar for the First Time


This is not a spectacle for the stage.
It belongs in the middle of everyone’s ribcage ship in the room.

It should be as a Viking funeral.

Splintered neck and shattered head wood-ripple the cracked concrete waters
as smoldering arrows shot from broken strings turn you into a pyre,
smoke so thick, you could slam-dance-stumble up it.
You will struggle to keep your footing on the ground soaked in beer, sweat, and tears.

Even the straight edge kids will crack a smile.

This is blood-blister-beautiful.
This is sinking-ship-release.
This is ramshackle-freedom.

Don’t clean up the mess.

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