This Dali Symphony

In this city, there is a mouth that yawns during the drug-eyed dawn,

during the hour of its twilight needles and its glass slide crack carried by the laboratorial pound hungry for veins

staggering wasted along the underage clubhouse parties held every night in Acropolis,

where the innocent are wrecked with flowing alcohol and where most of the virgins are auctioned off as victims to drowsy valium and holy hangovers near the subdivision playgrounds

craving for a little coffee and tonic, praying that they wouldn’t go home drunk with the smell of filtered cigarettes,

paradoxically afraid of appearing as the incarnates of heroin and lust, walking like transvestites molested by Warhol on a busy street crawling with Fords and SUV's

as they drive back to their mothers and fathers, eyes red and mouth gaped open,

that same mouth in the morning which tastes of stale tobacco and bad wine, breathing that voice which basks in the lies covering up the malice and the sin it bathed in last night

using that very same tongue which pierced through the ears of its lovers and pierced through the shaking lips of anorexic girls wearing skirts

climbing up boondocks of beer bottles and cocktails with vodka mixed with morphine mixed with death mixed with wisdom and stupidity and artistry and death again

doomed forever at its first taste with the lingering decapitations of those who know the travesties of the universe, of those who know the names of the vagrant stars boozing around the ocean skies at night

with the lost moons pounding their way out of the galaxy, scratching on mental infinity and emptiness in search for reason.