Cursing crimson walls, a thousand
or so souls on the floor shouldering away through strobe and intoxicated,
having berated himself in the hall and not for the last time.

Theres never a last time.
He's waiting again for the inevitable flash of recognition.
Yelling in casual tones, I'll just go and say hello.
Strange things these obligations.
Strange things these invitations.
Its never the last time, is it?
From what can you take your leave
if the sense have been smashed to smithereens?
Hell have to cop this sweet,
although there is nothing sweet about it . . .
Nothing at all.