How we lap it up:
the shining of the colours
& the words that cloy
pressed into our hands so furtively
so that we won't speak
of the real delight, so that
we won't even know it.

The waste – no repair – Loathing
the coloured liquors. It is brisk, sweet.
It is self-maiming. It is buggery.
Please, please, please. We all
rot. We are it.