Huddled in a cocoon of my own grime
Forlorn and wasted from my own trick
“She's hot,” she says from across the
Room filled with helium and gauze
You don't need words to make a statement
It's very difficult to be that *****
I suffer from delusions of
Illusions of grandeur
Pomp and circumstance
My theme song
I've graduated to this degree of decadence
Or is it dereliction?
I always get those two confused
Which is the one where
Ripple wine and crack *******
Are preferable to
Caviar and pink champagne?
No matter
I am equally distant from both
“Who does that,” she mutters
As she watches a
Woman in stilettos
Being urinated on by a
Hairy man on the *** channel
I sit with my ink pen and
Draw black eyes on the
Models in women's magazines
She turns to me
“Are you even listening?”
This pale, shelled out
Husk of a former woman asks
I'm listening
I retort within my own shackled mind
But if I pay attention
I just may **** us both

She sells herself to finance her suicide
Surrendering to the seductive siren sensation
One more hit of his pipe translates to
One more hit of her pipe
One more putrid ***** transforms to
One more skillful stick

She murders dignity to pursue decadence
Mumbling monotone mantras maniacally
One more trip around the block equates to
One more moral placed in hock
One more greasy smile amounts to
One more dance with denial

She absorbs abuse to save souls
Protecting proteges poised for perdition
One more lash of leather corresponds to
One more tickle of a feather
One more session of spanks brings
One more gesture of thanks

She stifles all semblance of normalcy
Wallowing wordlessly within her weathered world
One more pain converts to
One more gain commutes to
One more pain to one more pain