Asleep in clouds of smoke
& mellifluous jazz,
the sweet vices that bind all
in free-spirited Unity,
and that frenzied zeal
which could be borne only from the fecund Womb
of Melancholia & Regret,
thundering from the saxophones
and the mouths of Poets,
swimming their way back to sanctified Insanity,
seeking prodigal return to the earthen churches
of sanctified Insanity,
as they gather upon these shores night after night,
like the zealous disciples of the last saving Religion.
Their heads hang and sway like sinking suns,
and their faces glow like many majestic moons-
soon to eclipse each wayward son,
as they spew forth their own redemption,
broken but sharp attempts at some kind of re-deification
through street talk and rough ostentation.
Bound together by the gravitas
of ordained and prolonged Grief, they sing,
to fool themselves that their kind could also be saved
through the feigning of those lies which spare some from Truth-
but Truths which they know all too well and nobly accept-
And this is where the losers dwell?
For they are found in this so-called "lost" world,
vice guys finishing first,
by way of nothing more than an infinite thirst
to just stay "good and high",
'til the end draws nigh,
recognizing their truest reflection only within
the glistening, winking spirits which haunt their glasses,
as their gazes lingering longingly into them-
these, corners they can navigate, circles they can join-
without compromise.
