XX – The cocaine sonnet

Thou art, in powder, vexing garrulous,
a nature to abhor, talk’s vacuum:
thou hoover’st up the catalysing dust,
then suck’st all energy, leavest nerves numb.
Concentric circles of banality
describe thy leaden, repetitious rant,
thy overbearing atonality,
thy egotism and thy wheedling cant.
Then, haply by the midweek fresh and clean,
thou dost thy false restorative forswear
simper like nasty little go-between
indulge fourth wall with cute thousand yard stare:
scapegrace with forty-eight hours state of grace,
and then once more anaesthetise thy face.