long street at six am

french songs pervade the corner,
a back-lit Everything machine
derives a conscience from culture:
the guilt of beer and sin
lost the appeal to anesthetic
, foisted upon the naive, the fatuously innocent.
the bold wipe tears
while the weak bloom shame
sneaking hands into pockets
between hookah tokes.
the dreaded love from whores
won decisively over the comfort
of familiar disdain
until the sublime machinations
Addiction’s contortions
could settle into their grooves
as Brazilian Portuguese lingers
transvestite fingers on cock heads
working johns.