karma of the wine-soaked infidel
resides in that echelon of existence
only the truly visionary reach;
while contumely of the everyday critic
is something we learn to live with
the art houses reek of bones left
by lady gaga impersonators
unable to afford the cover charge
for a real life elsewhere
resonant in the steady rain patter
across faces of hurricane victims
stranded, with rock faces abraded
on this time-worn abyss
none but the foolhardy cling to,
while I break the last whiskey seal
on the one unbroken bottle on earth
worthy of consumption
will the vanquished hear us
as the wind wafts eloquently along
an unseen mecca our humanity derides?
