Sure, you have your blowtorch acerbic,
your razorblade tongue,
but I wonder what ends it can serve
other than to remonstrate literate nihilism
.
I'm getting wicked weary from the joust,
acknowledge now that the ad nauseam contentions
can only lead to a social disease
which rival the damnation of Faust ousted from normalcy
.
So, I drink again, as once a month I am prone
in seeking the soft stigmata of Hedon in Prada,
and tear up my belly as a beast swallowing
to no avail sanguine salvation and the unknown
.
The heart I craved to call home has faded to yellow
the hearth of which I was to keep vigil has grown cold
and muses banter, having blended to shades of gray,
is now displaced by those harpies who sway not for hope