Highly distressed, my actions hurtful and uncouth

Which is why, even now, I can easily spot the same affliction

I can catch a morbid sigh, like a wisp of amber smoke to someone with a crack addiction

I frequent Goth clubs just to revel in the sneers and dramatic pain

The morbid broth of those with faux vampiric teeth imitating facial gestures of the insane

They dance like air traffic controllers or someone fighting a wave

Entering a flailing trance against spooky black lighting adding pallor to each little Gothic face

Each one of them feeds my need to be part of the Stygian existence

Though the need crests and recedes with each fix of my dark insistence

Who knows why the black capes surrounding rotund women attract my attention?

Why I love the little pale shapes expounding on the gothic knack for pretension? 

I feel such a rush of exhilaration when one rolls their eyes at me in disgust

Or how the Victorian torture of girdles restraining so much flesh endears my lust

It's like a shot of pure Gothic nitrate filling my veins with each sarcastic smirk

The glowing shock placates the spilling shame of my addiction's work

Oh, to be present when one of the tall and gaunt ones recites horrid poetry

As the little rotund pale women taunt him in whispers from his torrid soliloquy

Oh how I relish in all of the sardonic over dramatic flair

The sordid self-interest in every wrist flick, and badly dyed hair

I wish that there were some sort of help for my peculiar affliction

Some way to overcome my long-suffering Stygian Addiction.

-David "Dingo" Bleecher