poem: bad free verse attempting to explain

the old words and adages are
stale; and yet
we all blaze up, in unison,
whenever there is
a chance.

one million rooms,
foaming with m/f violent
music; writing
to panic attack hangovers
and mythical
cigerette smoke. they lay
together, in the after

he came into the room with the snowflake-cold
and she blazed up.

twenty-five years later she fucks
a different man, the other boys
sliding like what-if what-if between
their bodies.