To the edge of reason booted like little flies I fly
For love to the Underground. Breezes cooped in bottles blue
Bending eyes inward to festered scars. Tortured minds weep
Their violet glittered puss. In mustard desk light, rain sweeps
The sleeping streets as a bachelor's room reeks with the stench
Of an overheated brain cheated in love ; strewn, in pain. Low
Mood drags like corpses through the days lanes of sorrow,
Avenues of despair and Venus cares no more for a punctured man.
Dawn breaks on the sleepless frown, swirled in smoke and lined,
Like a hedgehogs back, reversed, to pince and prick the soul.
Would anger, flattery, booze or plums shake her from her tomb-like
Cold? In which she's locked and left a once young man, now bitter ; Old.
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