I.D

I wander the edge of tired thought
In the thorny needle of afternoon
Whilst brittle light recedes, exhausted
By the bright black smirk of these
Dilated whores, their pregnant tragedy
Blemished by ashtray love affairs.

Animals that lie court judges,
Men fuck their meals
Pulsing like ripe fruit.

Beneath the thin veneer

Of Thumbs and off the peg suits.

The thin blue plume of perfume
Greets as an unpopular relative
Would, with treacle teeth that stink of
Shit. The fiction of the anus is culled.

Almost, save for the sullen poet as he is

Wedded to his own rotten bowels
Where semen and pale flowers stab
A blank canvas, and I just sit and think
“I’m sure I’ve seen this film before”

I

am a foul airless corporate jester's token