Gabriella Garofalo writes

Lost bits of information and Judas flowers  
Bloom under the roots, no one picks them:  
Wobbly tables, anyone, or shaky souls?  
Stop with karma, please, stop with la-di-da words,  
It’s just a spat between the sun and moon,  
Not perjury, not life -  
Hey, wait, you picked her up in a seedy club  
Where she sluts in a corner  
On the lookout for an easy con?  
They’ve got light fingers, fear, the moon,  
But only dosh they get,  
Shags, dosh, that’s how they learn  
Desire shuns waste,  
Like ravens he’s hungry only for eyes -  
Or so a French poet once said -  
Well, give him eyes, if short of them  
Give him souls, yours of course  
And he’ll be off, a glint overnight -  
Yet you think him a light forcing skies - 
Yet you think him life - 
Well, almost, or the very first time.

[from A BLUE SOUL, Argotist Ebooks]

Prostitute Drinking -- Edvard Munch