Where every backroom 'price fix', is a matrix for a day of doom, and all the pretty girls, lean, allow you witness of the jewels, of daddy's little 'princesses'...when 'after hour's party's, hold the keys to sweet success, and never leave the room, to be shared with all the rest. For, if, twas known...the whole lie 'round, would fall...for, light would 'luminate the screw.
It is an empty place, an empty race...with fewer souls, than you might guess. They suck them out, like marrow bones, with too high rent and little pay, with agony of toil each day, illicit rendezvous at night, and pictures that would kill the mate...whose, stuffing solace up her nose, of little tracks on dinner plates...and has her own clandestine date, where 'husband's boss, is shagging her.
That is the world, this world at least. The sum of it, a total waste...where all are offered some respite, if only, they will desecrate, their honor, father, motherhood, their virtue, all, to join...some pseudo brotherhood or sisterhood...of secret haze, the likes of which, might make you late, as candidate...for sainthood. Delta this or kappa that, by daddy's little beans...you got to where you're at., as mama winked, and shook her ass.
You wouldn't trade it for a paradise...I'm glad. You got a very private thing. You want to keep it to yourself. I understand. Just don't come crying home, the day...you realize, it's cheap shellac. It's bourbon...in a can, better yet...a plastic bag, now, you've drunk the whole damn thing.
You could vomit for a year, and not come clean...excuse, you call it 'purge', as if...that means a lot. Oh. Yes. I see. 'Cathartic sense, absolving one of...everything'. Like guilt? No wonder barkeep's keep so quiet.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: ronhicks.fineartworld, google art
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