Last Line Epiphanies

By JL Martindale

It’s not how old I am, it’s how old I feel – Minor Threat

I chug another plastic cup
of whatever shit they’re pouring
Numb my brain of orgasmic-
mosh-pit-bruise memories
before the set ends.
Is it true?
Punk ages like lighter fluid
stored beneath pilot lights
Strife worship festers
like painful white head egos
bubbling surface
outdated angst
we were not the first
Twenty plus years lost:
I’m now obsolete
spitting self-conscious
drunk-guffaw
one-liners
to carbon-copy
black patch thrift store
denim backs
with those ox blood
Docs I still can’t afford
Is this evidence of belonging
to the movement?
(any movement)
Or will they too fall
in last call lines?
reborn cynics, regret:
we are not the last
We weren’t even
a minor threat.