On the Edge

On the Edge
Or
My personal view of Decadence (elicited by K. Alkalay Gut)


One looks in the glass and a tinful of space is scraped out of the edges
The rust can’t contain its decline into fester, but it shines
Faintly; with the breadth of a thousand dead stars.

To scoop out, as with sorbet, a willing yet spiteful resolve
Of a pregnant parabola churning in blackness
One rides the chrome spokes to every extreme.

To flatten the edges one rubs ash-stained fingers
On a countenance graying with ill-employed time
Sees a livid white face ‘tween the filth and the drops.

One fades into bottoms of ashtrays that shone once
But have since borne existence through squalid brown secrets
Their rasp has been quashed by an incessant dry cough.

One immerses oneself into liquid and silence
Plods a carotid burden into two-faced carousal
That thumps with the dullness of time.

The flashy decline into nothing ad infinitum
Is one’s burning desire and its twin in dismay
That blears in the glass as one stoops yet again.