I Guess We Lost

Lists of swinging fists that nobody saw,
that were slicing through air
at the foot of a stair in a bar,
make beds of busted heads,
pillowed and puffed.
In some quiet and cordoned emergency ward
they left us.
So we always demurred
when an ill-advised word
from some enemy's ill-equipped tongue
sizzled and burned at our backs.
So we learned to dodge.
I guess we lost!
Staring down the cliffs
with my crew-cut,
I had turned twenty-three
and believed I was dangerous.
Lists of swinging hips down in the clubs
were holding their swerve
(I am perfectly sure) for us.
And a photograph says what a photograph is --
Holy shit were our faces so young!
and all pissed and thin-lipped
as we tippled and tripped. It was fun.
I guess we're done!
Lies and flying flies sapping our blood,
We fall down, sliding
down, slipping,
slamming the ground: We are fucked.
And I went down to the mystic,
all head-ached and heart-sick,
in line with the beggars and bums,
paid his price, and he slurred
"My advice is to turn and to run!"
I guess we're dumb.
Gather around, partygoers,
(that's if you're still living,
and not wasted, washed-up, watered down,
and not dead or death-wishing).
Because the trumpets can't blow.
The professional driver got lost.
The ruler and priests, from the highest
to least, have been lined up and shot.
How I prayed and I hoped
it would lead to some moment
when all of it just flew apart.
How I wished and I schemed it, from whisper to scream.
How I wanted to just hold your heart
in the palm of my hand,
and just watch as it slows
and it stops.
Call the cops!
We're star-crossed.
We've gone numb.
Well, it was fun!
But I guess we lost.
I guess we're done.