Moving shapes
Of hulking, blackened,
Highlighted shadows
Going every which way
Without the slightest
Clue as to
Which way
They’re going
Or coming from
And they’re painted
And draped
And covered in straps,
Shreds,
Trails of furs, leathers,
Plastics of every sort,
And it gets hard to sort
Them out,
The monsters
From
Their
Costumes.

How much depravity
Is enough or too much
For the depraved
Before the irony
Is too clean
To waste on themselves?

I’m standing in the
Midst
Of a mist
Of sweat and ****
And my jeans
Are soaked to the
Shins with *****,
Or sweat,
Or ****,
Or hopefully blood,
And I’m staring into
A shifting cloud
Of tall, thin, cold
Glasses of water
Waving skinny limbs,
Twisting and flailing
As the show
Is put on for the
Other bony, ragged
Appendages by their
Androgynous semi-owners,
Draped in furs
That are just as
Flea bitten as
Their desire to
Create substance
Through the flagrant
Display of debauchery
And purposeful
And tactfully
Tactless
Effort
To prove
A lack
Of substance.