The Chanteuse,
alone;
crooning dystopian
torchlit ennui,marinaded
in absinthed vocals,
in the salons
and bars of the,
fashionable Left Bank,
domicile to flaneurs
& their bohemian confreres;
wounding their hearts with
visceral monotonous langour,
amid pyres of smouldering
Gauloises,untipped,
stygian-leafed frissons
of earthy odours,
redolent of arcane
manual labour,
debts
and
despair.
A sharp and riveting poem written by a word artist. Congrats Louis.