NIGHTSCENE

Rustic urchins

lurk empty-bottled

with Neptunian eyes, 

all briny and ocean-like -

The air is mangled,

vexed with irkish cacophony, 

and shoved, uncooked,

like a jagged song,

through a rapacious flume -

I am rancid with passion,

rank, evil-smelling and rotten,

trapped in a quagmire

of perusal,

ramshackled and unabated,

boiled in tequilla spillways,

sodden, souted, soused,

three sheets in the wind,

slandered by swishy accounts,

my soul, secluded 

and detached.

Morassed by a myriad

of ragtag ribble-rabble,

the night disintegrates

into the neon dazzle

of a midnight cabaret.