Ad Furta

Patience as vile as the jester waking everyone up to a miserable dawn
Equates ironmongers fulgent without a twin. 

The usual avenue we clamour down stinks of piss, 
The robotic beetles glut down a street lamp mist. 

The ridicule was over before we stank of fish, 
Forced to have sworn what we pretend to miss. 

Undressing jackals hidden from the rhino, 
A sense returns and we glimpse our heart as zero; - 

I cannot comprehend people any more, I impose, 
They are no more than a glittering plague of narcissism, moulding my pose. 

The last supper was as boring as winter without the Sun, 
The green valley sucking up roses is no more than what it was to have been done. 

I will never leave, the cane I say is himself awaits an orgasm, a zig-zag cuff
Shackled below my feet, not quite a beat, not quite a dream, an impression of our bluff.