Under the bridge is where it seems this place
should belong. Full of trolls, red-skinned devils,
even clowns with mayonnaise and dead, skinned hookers,
laced a bit with powder (albeit for babies' butts or
entertainment otherwise.) Pass me the key.
Sordid-seeming smartwhips let their hearts come out to play
somewhere between obligation and a slipped
facade. Trophies, monies, colored names
offered like dirty tokens to merry-go-round in a frozen hell.
Rainbows wacommed with puppies, pork fat, dumbbells, beer and slime.
"Useless" just cosmetic veneer slovenly sloshed on
my crooked catacomb;
such my dirty little secret.