Every Act is a Revolver Shot!

"I repudiate! Ideal, Knowledge, Boomboom."

Stifling apathy, I mingle, smile;
gliding in limbo,
in, not of,
a stale collection of pseudo art lovers
studying in mock appreciation
an assemblage
of distorted images
they cannot comprehend.

A look, half-brief, elevates my pulse,
uncommonsensical eyes, exquisite male form.
I echo his glance;
"No more enigmas!" and
"He considers himself very likeable";
but
moving potently, he steps into my path.

A chiaroscuro dreamhaze mutes the real.
The bourgeois landscape melts surreal.
Willingly, I alight the strains of possibility.
All conceptual questions drown in
the puddle of hypocrisy at my feet.

I know it is me.
I know it is me.
I feel sick in my ecstasy.