Ennui.

Melancholy hath more finery than thee!
And yet it is so near, the rancid breath
is flushing in out in out

in my hair, on my neck and
across my tentative veinery.
Vanity, oh what vanity drives you.

Is this the words you spoke about
in my nightmares, in my dreams?
To despise things to do and places to see

and people to love, laugh and hold
and reject reality? Nothing -
such unphilosophical nihlism.

The organism is asleep it seems.
And no orgasm to provoke
any true feeling beyond my ego-centre.