Rocker

Dull iron, grit
And power in the wires,
Laying tread with flash tanks
And flecked floors with spit

To fuck a greasy axe-wound
Readily
And improbably certain,

He plays her
In the only way he knows,
Certain, ground and dusty;
Through her and overcompensating
In the dark of all-night

And when the lights shine on,
Objective,
White heat played raw to death,

To death! And to each,
His own drives on and on
Without a change in thought
Or practice.