Without Passion

Xanax laced with coffee      on a dirty mattress  next to a cold shower  inside the crumbling doorstep of the flat.   A short walk      from a subway haunted by ghosts      with biological clocks   falling like exchange rates                specualting    themselves    to death      with empty martini glasses  and unhappy engagements,      looking through double sided mirrors  that bleed and cry until           we fall asleep.           The pressure fills up and pops      like a gas balloon:  while everyone else           finishes their                              Wall Street Journal,           Their red chafing skin   rubbing against      scratchy business attire    begging for water      as they pour   Bloody Mary   Power Lunches      down their throats    and wipe    the tomato juice       off each others    chins                   with an authentic    plastic smile    looking      to conquer...                    anything...                               anywhere.      To drive home to Colonial doorways      with a trophy w***e waiting in the shower      who   does   not   speak   English,           and a cup of coffee laced with Valuum.                          And there is nothing to forget after we have already forgotten      there was something that should not be forgotten      And there is nothing left but to:                        accept                        move on                        put down                        attack                        and wilt.