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.