There will be time

The Degenerate

Shall I go,
say,
on dusk,
to haunt suburban streets?

Where the choking smoke of barbies mocks sauterne
and debaucheries are hung, pegged, deliberated ... learned?

I could have been a wretched tom
peeping sans aplomb past flickering sills - where the late night lament
of reality T.V.              supersedes sponsors and affronts divinity.

(Stretched out on the floor the watchers guffaw effusively).

Should

I,
whilst sipping cut-rate chardy; reach across, adjust your cardy -
dear?...
for though I've wept and purged,
crept and preyed,
cringed and scuttled craven past predictable spousal rage
yet
I loathe the impertinences of the victim.

I have watched grotesque revenges un
reeeeeeeeeeeeel
and I have known the itch nubile flesh yields
and in short,
I cannot regulate the urge.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
when one factors in the actual efficacy of D.N.A.,
among the clothes, among the furniture in dis
array,
would it have been wise to sally forth
with the sly assistance of a simulated smile,
to have squeeeeeezed the truth till it shrieked: "No more!"
transcribed a bow receiving no applause,
alleged:
"I am Neo, come to wake you from your death," if one retorts:
"You're depraved, a boozing loser - a more than unamusing bore."