Dancing red dresses and
Black trousers, sung by the dozen,
Promises of dreams to come
For a life no one leads.
The punch has come,
Filling heads with the brothers gin
But you know, no one can feel it.
So you take another drink,
Another shot at comfortably numb.
The worm at the bottom is still alive,
Feeding on your soul
And feeding you with desire,
That it may live on your screams
As you awake in the coldest sweat.
You’re here, homo not so sapiens,
Better be called homo sperans –
The man who longs.
And tomorrow, or next week, or next month,
You matriculate,
A master in intersecting desire,
Knowing your place,
Your dreams, the man who aspires.