From: http://combatwords.blogspot.com/2011/01/combatwords-january-7-2011-splitting.html
She doesn't know, she said she doesn't know
And so an extra pint, a shot of gin—
And pinball through the jukebox techno pop.
Pick a fight—what makes that eightball special?
Grab it, throw it where the music (music?)
Emanates and break the sound of fuckers.
She says she doesn't know, so disagree
And jump the curb—she's fists: his hair and keys.
At last she's driving somewhere definite.
"God does not exist you crazy bitch,
Why withhold your judgment, nothing's there.
Say it might be so, I dare you, say it,"
Might be so. She married mighty soul,
A frantic drunk she shouldn't love—
Mostly doesn't anymore—
But drives him back to sheets;
Rolls the extra bed
And lays her head
Under moon
And asks
'If.'
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