Pleasure is very selfish, we all got fleeced

not seeing the puny details, the little things

acrid flashbacks resuscitate cursorily

in the middle of nocturnal self talks, inquiries

about what’s underneath vizards, snookering riggings

our Janus-faced frail humanity loves to conceal;

because the unwritten rules of survival are engraved in greed’s

memorandum of understanding some fail to read.

Pleasure is very selfish, egocentric; 

why should its luminous adrenaline in our bloodstreams

be for public consumption, when its ownership 

could be inked in contracts, cautiously sealed

for the greater or  worse on insight’s ambit,

till death do us part or child custody,

programmed for cameras and action, for the time being;

it’s hard to compromise, pleasure is selfish.