fascination of the abomination.

most of the faux-friendships
shallow flirtations
and petty whoring
are entirely indigestible

amid the egocentric rubbish
of those who label themselves “writers”
or even worse, “poets”
the deep and brooding ones
who refer to themselves as “artists”

philandering their pathetic psychosis
and saccharine pathos
on the willing droves of
forlorn, drunken desolates

lurking within internal webbing
in the one dimensional scenery
of sociopathic networking

© may 2011 heather brager