the essence of that pain-is-my-girlfriend punk spirit

From walking the Soho streets by night
to put up poetry gig posters,
to motorcycling thousands of solitary miles,
brooding over grief, with no home to go back to,
this is a rise-and-fall-and-rise story,
a bouillabaisse of adventures,
and all the girls I've loved before;
this is mine, and I call it fine, gone life.

I never knew where I was going,
but I knew I would get there.
We live on a loop until we get it right;
maybe I can correct the errors 
in future editions of myself.

There’s the sleazy bars, the cheap motels,
Elizabethan revenge tragedies...
Great poetry doesn’t always come from great poets:
Sometimes it takes losers, hacks, junkies, crooks:
Every punk rock pugilist has a story to tell.

Nobody in this story gets rich,
or even seems to break even —
all anyone gets out of the experience
is a few dozen excellent poems.
And that ends up being enough.

What, you were expecting a cozy romance?
This is eminent hipster domain,
the opposite of the great escape,
yet something about this fate seems fitting
for a hell of a story-teller, on the scene for key moments,
just a kid with a shared passion
for the practical magic of making things
with poignant details about hardscrabble existence.