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.
