Men with long hair, curled locks faintly faded,

like pirates on a long pier, drunk on rum and

forward in thought, who carouse and unfurl

their thoughts upon each other, and on those

fairer and nearer, even if to no avail at all; cats

on the prowl, on the fence-dark-alley, tepid

smells, garbage cans-sitting-grayly, for ever

in continuum; sunken ballistics, each pheromone

a sick note for siren songs, opposite the bar

blast bagpipes, situated among locked doors

and brushed whores, bait lickers locked on,

for the night ritual bombasts and ages well,

the better moments in life is the onlookers joy.