“In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice.”
-Marquis de Sade
A Procurer faced a precursor
And declared to the wind; “Let’s go Nam!”
His rotund voice explored the complexities of Death Rattle.
A conversation served as a pinch in quantity,
A quality ignored
When a pro stuttered to a stimulated janitor.
Aesthetic relevance suspended on his tonsils
A rabble of vibrato
A language dead as a corpse
Stuck to the throat
Like a Money-Shot.
But his promises were loose change.
Found inside the sofa,
Underneath the vending machine
Where vermin scattered at the sight of fingers,
Because they knew he used his fingers