Black Blood

In prismatic corners ditched, shuffled among people, who are
too excited in raping trouser pockets till the last stitch,
so damn happy in beguiling oneself for the splendour of tinsel trinkets,
animated in cheerful hugging company, hyena chuckles cracking in the February air
overriding the washy caked eyes of goosestepping clocked wage-slavery.

They enter a mirkly brown-shaded tavern,
beverages and snacks stuffing the gaping mouths of their innards;
vulgar roars of laughter fill the atmosphere of the room,
nest warmth stabs you in the eye like the caress of a damp, briny smutch
ejaculated unto your feverish stern face,
like the blood you spat when your stomach was scraped,
and a burst trombosis flooding your pants,
while you shared loneliness with the company
of your decomposing corpse.

Walking by and fully realizing, never shall you rank among them,
so broken in their limited scopes and bland achievements;
failed initiations reduced you to a lumbering rusty inmate of a dank hospice,
scouring the fringes of madness and regulations,
borrowing smothered hope from the fable of a cigarette's scent,
crushed by the heel of a volatile brainy slut of some sorts.

Nobody asks for you
They rather defile the best you had to offer.
Kind endeavours drown in the human marshes.
Deceived, but hard to kill, huh, bugger?

While you go on deceit,
selling your hideous harvest on the marketplace,
wagering your past victories with priapic glee,
I pickpocket your customary franchise by proxy,
and see you descend in hollow pursuits, heralding
the eventuality of your fall.

A spider waits in her web demolished by elements
and childish spite, but agile like Odin's steed,
no direction is a stranger to her, and a crack
in the floorboard is a fine hiding place
for the intrepid hunter.

Vindication is a storm that lumbers the vanity of
baseless pride.