Satire is Dead



A feeling of tundra floods the changing room,

showers preoccupied by dirty, bloody,

foot resters.

How one bleeds, unaware of the stream and

puddle under the desk the surge of red

pumping rivulets,

veinfluid villa floor mosaic slopes

delta grouted runnel and gutter.

Nero’s noblest toerag spills his last.

Vomitarium graffiti states clear:

Petronius expired  here


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