Night Life

Deep in the heart of the fetid urban jungle

its mating call resonates

in the dim twilight of a saturday night.

And if you follow the river of blood and puke

upstream,

you may catch a glimpse of this strutting troll.

The testosterone charged, bottle crushing,

head splitting mindless drunken imbecile.

In all its beer spewing adolescent glory.

 

 

With flaccid penile antenna

it seeks to conquer and degrade

the female of its species;

The hundred and forty pounds of gin soaked flesh

that waits impatiently guzzling

with others of her kind

failing to summon the illusion of dignity.

Blotchy legs, carpet burns,

and moist at the prospect

of her impending nicotine ridden insemination.

 

 

Together they give hope to the impoverished sperm

that should never have made it,

the seeds of a new generation

of human flotsam and jetsam,

the thick residue of drunken debauchery,

Without purpose,

without compassion,

unwanted,

unsupported,

unloved,

and undone.

Reviews

[ganymeder]

I love how your poems don't necessarily give everything away in the title. You let the imagery tell the story for you.

[Damien Dsoul]

Ha-ha! I can very much catch a glimpse of your anger in this poem. Your tone of voice seems higly sarcastic and frustrated with the city's night life, and it's very intruiging the way you display your anger, mixing it with high-powered imagery of filt and disgust. A good thing that your anger is held in check, never quit overstepping its boundary.