Connoisseurs Of Despair Poem by Kevin Patrick

Sharon tells me she's thrilled
when she sees her skins peeled
From the scrapes of Tommy's fist
bruised from docking with her lip
But she says there always kindred
Infiltrated through her affection
When she gets him cornered down,
Like a housefly on her heel
Counter clockwise in his groin
Which thrills his pupils to counter twitch
On the chessboard colour floor
Where he moans with satisfaction
to be her incandescent whor-


And Even tells me that its heaven
When it's a quarter pass eleven
And little Sara's got him toped,
From an altitude that makes him drop
With her firm technicians grip
That has him writhing into fits
Raptures abound this tender bull
Bandaging him with a tumble fall
And stencils blue onto his neck
It's the comforts of her molesting
His inhibited recluse affections
The best attention always granted
when empathies contracted herpes
Malice quills the confines
of the insipidness of yuppies
Directing our destruction
In Mutually Assured Romantic Violence



So Bon appetite
We're coinsures of despair
Eloping debacles whenever we dare
To pour gasoline on our match lit embraces
Hiding in desserts to prowl long spaces
Dancing synchronous in a voodoo oasis
Never leaving the affliction of what we call each other
Because we are reflections of the same broken mirror
Entwined in web of malevolent luminescence



From which we cannot so soon depart
It was too soon to dance,
now it's too late to leave
Because Charon drives our four heeled steed
Towards our suicide ménage a trios
Me and her with, a friendly loaded gun
To fill the time with our immortal fun
We're an attractive duet, in Western stand off
Combating the silence, as two warheads in deadlock
So we celebrate the decent
in this tableaux baroque chaos
Trapped in the Kennel where the beggars languish
The starving enchantment of long distant anguish
Drinking the cognac as the connoisseur of despair




So we'll tie my arms in copper knots,
that scratch the veins with clever dots
Please make me crawl until I'm numb,
Stick the rattle in my palm
Than tie the chain around my neck
Make me bleed until I'm strong
Enthralled to burns of your lighter pen
Without your spit Ill fly long gone
Into the bayou of the rusted steam
To dream of teeth in my Capillaries
By the laurel tree that cries to leave
One night stands of archetype tragedies


Bliss is the sunshine at the end of a war
When we learn to walk the trenches of insuperable hell
And realise it's us who we will always drag down
Because we've opened these doors which will never close
Were refugees from some disease
Mad, Corrupt, and spoiled sl-+$
Incarcerated to each other's needs
And always insisting on sipping that substance
Which invalidates reason of proportioned justice
Because we think were suitably happy
when the bed sheets pillar with a companions body
But there is only one black flower who satisfies my hobby


Drinking the wine
as Connoisseurs of Despair