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"Let it ride", "Calle Sin Salida (Dead End Street)", and "It’s the only way" by Damien Posterino

Let it ride

He has always been relentless

when it comes to the chase.

As a boy tossing coins for sweets,

luck was his sugary hit.

All the other kids smelled fear

when tempted with one more spin.

Attached to a father’s addiction,

his small steps followed shadows

in racecourse betting rings filled

with the noise of men so sure of it.

Fists full of cash and the same stories

of fake glory repeated ad nauseam.

It’s in his blood now, a transfusion

the speed of light through his veins

chasing the next race, a hard whisper

in his ear whooshes through his brain.

The winning post is his only orgasm,

away from tactile moments he lost.

He thinks hesitation is for losers,

winners never blink- stare deep

into the sucker’s soul.

That ping every week from a text-

another insider with a crystal ball;

A golden prophecy - a sure thing.

Calle Sin Salida (Dead End Street)

Mamá has 3 sons

still young enough to hide their tears.

Her eyes the colour of cacao

sink deep and dark

telling her story.

6 days every week-

rising with the first robin song,

returning with the fumes of the colectivo;

Chained to the local factory,

lines of sweatshop wives

sewing heart shapes

to a Latin chorus of the needle beat.

Lila Downs screams heart filled boleros

to their shared lunches of muted longings.

The three brothers go to school

but soon the shadow of work

will be calling like sunset.

In early evening they kick a flat football

on streets paved with dirt

until the last light disappears.

Their Abuela casts a shadow, fading in the house.

Papá as long gone as the last train after midnight.

It’s the only way

Get rich faster than light.

Incinerate your eyes with the prize.

Wear headphones so nobody can

hear the beat of that music.

Sit alone at the afternoon cinema,

wait for the same story to unravel.

Listen to silence as words spew out

like soda from a shaken can.

Hide inside bubbles made of steel

that no pin can ever pop.

Sell your soul

to pray for a miracle.

Drift in and out of your evening stupor-

reality dissolves on your numb tongue.

Leap onto a moving train

that is never going to stop.

Smell like leftovers and Listerine.

Ghouls crawl up your nostrils.

Leave an empty diary in the desert-

it screams of madness in its padded cell.

Walk with stones in your shoes.

Hidden secrets inside those silk socks.

Hand out business cards at funerals

because life must go on.

Waste everything on the buffet table.

Let it all rot while the bands play.

It’s the only way.

Damien Posterino (he/him) is a Melbourne-born poet writing in Mexico. His poetry explores characters, conversations, and capturing moments in time. His work has been accepted by 30 different publications including recent editions of Sledgehammer Lit, Rough Diamond, Crow Name, The Madrigal Press, Roi Fainéant, Fish Barrell Review & Paddler Press. You can find him on Twitter @damienposterino


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