Tomangos

Caught in this old haunt
By the sea,
Where the beats change
And the patrons
Grow younger –
But we are still here,
Diminished,
Deflated,
But drunkenly defiant
(at least they are anyway).

The politics downed
One blue bottle a time
As that heartbreaker
Strikes again,
While hating this home;
Meanwhile
That callous callow fox
Brings tears to his
Beloved friend’s face,
Cosmetically beautiful;

Yet nobody knows
When either is ever natural.

The carpet is still worn
From repeated steps
Taken in solace
Amidst the inebriated;
Ghosts of the past
Present themselves
Presently
As faces contort
To resemble lovers
Lost to fear.

The strangers only serve
To enforce
The strangeness
Of this situation:
How still time has stood
While passing by
Even quicker than
A second slips
Away,
To nothing:

All seen before, with every
Crossing over the threshold.

Déjà vu
Freeze-framed
Beside the faceless,
Old hangers-on
Having slithered away
To neoteric niches
Filled with people
Nescient to their
Sycophantic ways –
Until the souls are sucked dry.

The sick cycle
Sees them spawn
Anew whenever
A few die off;
And though we’d
Weed them out
With fourberie,
Lurking roguishly
In the corners
Were more:

Fleeing invisibility
For a taste of obscurity,

Always more,
Slyer than before,
So much so
I cannot recognise
Rogue from ravager
Anymore;
Strobing lights
Strangle my sight
As I lose everyone
In the compression.

The stagnating screams
Rise and fall
As I walk and walk
This winding way,
Searching for something
Never really there –
Until, finally,
With thinned-out soles,
I see those I know
And those I don’t

With no longer a clue
As to who is who.