Former Glory

Miguel and I stumble out of the Cha Cha Lounge,

each one of us with a cigarette on out lip.
We stumble into the winter night
fumbling to put our coats on,
fumbling for a light,
fumbling through our young lives.
We move through the cities dark streets
from dive bar to dive bar,
raping and pillaging like
two of Genghis Kahn's rejects,
like Butch and Sundnce.
Every night we're gunned down
by last call,
by sunrise,
by the emerging world.
What normies don't understand is,
who we are in this drunken darkness,
is who we really are.
The darkness brings out the savage in me,
in us,
and most of all in this city.
The whiskey blocks out the bad,
but it brings out the worse.
These words are hardly a confessional,
no,
they are the bitter honesty
of two men who have forgotten
what it's like to not be broken,
of two men who are looking for a former glory.