In this pithy, bright, rebald room

Happiness is only for sybarites
When my smutty mouth begets a smile

My carmine heart begins its churning
Like an earthquake, in its own pathetic revulsion
I feel the hot sweat
Cooking up with the servile crust of my back

My dermis,
Scorching, sizzling, melting

Pores unshut themselves
Mindlessly exposed
Like fishes' ring-like,
Their cheap, obscene mouths

Through the circular pores
Comes an angry, ravenous lava
Surging, spewing

Running,
One hole for one fire tornedo
Don't get greedy

I lie on this sentencious floor daring to repire
But no respite I'm given
I'm a shard in a rubbish bin
Along with these dying cigarettes

Come to me, I want to make love
They whisper

Spewing halts
Pores wind up

I'm alone
Body effuses damp steam
Like a burning sausage
on a heated barbeque grill

At my neighbour's happy birthday revelry
held for me, but I wasn't invited

I lie
in a clouded remission
I'm done, over it.
Happiness is only for sybarites.

Green mosses grow, cover my helpless carcass.