There will be time

Let us go then,
           you
and I,
when the evening is hors d'oeuvred against the sky
like salmon - curled, tongue-pliant
on sourdough;
let us stroll past brasseries hawked as chic,
the implications
bleak:
for RSVP dates demand endless aperitifs
and fillet mignon orders disappoint with rancid beef.

Menus embellished to superlative excess, exhort largesse
until the ravenous diner begs the question ... oh...
do not ask:
'What is it?'
promptly serve the sauteed gizzards.

Near the loo, the boob jobs swell and grow
propounding and expounding the latest Di Capprio. Ahhhhhh
h
h
h
h...
this ardent Lygon light, it...............Hiroshimas
leaving frangible ash;
cauterizes rind-less flesh, turn ribs to crumbling chalk, erupts
then makes compulsory countless, pointless Beams
and coke
                    toked 
                                   later
in an inner urban flat
where furniture lies formless as remorse
and all that is on offer is infinitesimally worse,
worse,
worse than
                   after
                   wards
skulking on the balcony imbibing roiling foam -
would a hasty leap expiate all excess ... woe?
Could one atone? Wring briefly de-ringed hands? Fess?

No. No?

No!