Sodom has Gucci.
Sodomites valet your Maserati
demanding your celestial guests.
Offer them your daughters
one in a Vera Wang iconic wedding dress
another in Portofino pearl low-tops.
But be prepared to flee the palm-lined esplanade.
Leave your caramel bruleé latté as the mob is struck blind.
Run between the shafts of brimstone and don’t look back.
Window dressing, coveted capsule collections beckon
those titans of luxury, fashionistas on parade
lest you forfeit your soul to them, the VIPs in Armani
That pillar of artisan-porcini-truffle Himalayan salt
atop the pedestal on the Rodeo Drive median will haunt you.
As you make your way into those Hills of Beverly
don’t look back. It was always a sulfurous hot mess
haute cauldron of alta moda while your soul withered.