V.
Post-modern love has let me down big time;
if all is relative, then so am I,
good only so long as my harp is in tune.
No love is safe under the dark new moon,
not a f*cking thing sacred in the sky.
No longer know the meaning of sublime.
Yesterday I saw a YouTube upload --
a parade of swishing sashay buttocks,
perfect Ideals you'd never walk beside,
poop chutes you see yourself a turd inside,
near-naked chastity belts with padlocks,
your inner bouncer, Hey Jack, hit the road.
So, I'm on the road now, bottle of Jack,
heading for the catwalks of Hackensack.
VI.
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