Crooner

Sweet sickness that has me by the hand
leads to a void where metamorphosis
is a wicked thing with wings
I step out into the night, 
a soda-stained shirt and a heart of velveteen
hear the leaves whisper in the darkness,
Gods of mystery and fear dance under monstrous starlight
jazz squares with honeyed melodies
Ginsberg and Plath sit on stools
Sipping darkness peppered with stars
my glorious idols, my only saints
They watch as I snort sin off a vinyl
Even my losing battles are fun
with alcoholic ink poured from immortal goblets
What need have I of base, human vice?