In the penthouse of illusions

everyone gorges on delusions.

Lost to reality,

numb, uncapable of inquiry

high on a cup of tea,

in love with hemp

indulging on snow,

everybody at this party

gets kicks out of blows.

If it’s extreme

with really tight denim

If it’s shallow

with tinges of hollow

If it’s bitchy

and a tiny bit witchy

If it draws blood

and mixes it with mud

they laugh, they scream, they dream.

They go along with the scheme

a cheap and shabby trainspotting scene.

They feed their brains with more gin,

discard the board games.

They just drink and grin,

they infuse their bodies to the beam

with liquor, drugs and toxic fumes.

The flowers that could be in bloom

have become just that….mean.

Everybody at this lavish party

thinks is cool and a smarty,

but they are just petty and dirty.

Overindulging in trifling banter,

full of rancour

pretend and try to impress,

on the rhythms of dance,

themselves and each other.

And them being flirty….

they are just thirsty

for all the feelings they have lost

when all the simple things in life they tossed.

Unbearably loud and absolutely meaningless

those pop songs, those repetitive house tunes

top off this lavish, tedious party.

And they’ll all be the same

when they turn forty.