Cursing crimson walls, a thousand
or so souls on the floor shouldering away through strobe and intoxicated,
having berated himself in the hall and not for the last time
Theres never a last time
He's waiting again for the inevitable flash of recognition
Yelling in casual tones, I'll just go and say hello
Strange things these obligations
Strange things these invitations
Its never the last time, is it?
From what can you take your leave
if the sense have been smashed to smithereens?
Hell have to cop this sweet,
although there is nothing sweet about it
Nothing at all