A poem exploring feelings of rejections and being wholly misunderstood. Comments are welcome.

Rustic urchins
lurk empty-bottled
with Neptunian eyes, 
all briny and ocean-like -
The air is mangled,
vexed with irkish cacophony, 
and shoved, uncooked,
like a jagged song,
through a rapacious flume -
I am rancid with passion,
rank, evil-smelling and rotten,
trapped in a quagmire
of perusal,
ramshackled and unabated,
boiled in tequilla spillways,
sodden, souted, soused,
three sheets in the wind,
slandered by swishy accounts,
my soul, secluded 
and detached.
     Morassed by a myriad
of ragtag ribble-rabble,
the night disintegrates
into the neon dazzle
of a midnight cabaret.

The End

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