Last Call
the upheaval of bliss in the elixir
massaged the world
with biochemical paws.
it was appealing, indeed,
this dearth of confusion
in a lack of tomorrowness--
the paychecks mere math,
without grace or art.
which up was
up, really,
and why so much descent?
why kneel sad yet glib
before a magistrate of illusion?
but
if a lion ant lurked
in a toothpick-skewered olive,
it had to be a trap,
a smooth slide of sinking allure
in a funnel of gin.
maybe this eerie dizzy banquet
lacked euphoria, after all,
no longer steep,
neither seductive,
just along for the cab ride.
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8/15 corrected typo
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