In velvet red he sat in front again –
Crisscrossing crescent lines of malcontent.
No eyes to monitor the clicks of keys;
Of misspelled lies – castles and whorehouses
And dungeons, parasols and fuzzy ‘cuffs.
Atop his shaking bed that held no truth –
Not of his forty years, nor of his dick
For if it did, then, honey, disconnect.