Caustic doorway blues
The fog sets in,
and the moon doesn't glow
when brick structures crumble
Rats in worn carpeting, writhing
The screaming from pensive terminals
and insects live on dead wood
trees felled in hollow rounds
This is the end of something warm
These are days of hydrogen loneliness
and grey skies applaud the tarmac
Pornographers snap pictures
of silhouettes in garages
and the playground hears no love
when gunshots deafen the trees
and the old mattress is sodden
Stale alcohol pungency
near the alleyway, dormant today
But the lights are still glowing
in the house by the canal
where somebody's memories still linger

So the keyboard in morose haze is a maze for the poet, blurred mind, slurred lines
How impossible to focus on screen and desk, simultaneously and keeping uniform
He doesn't look anywhere but within himself, the core reliance on life and poetry
A system of chemicals that writhe within him, every second an ordeal and euphoric
How he licks his lips, as they dry so fast, and the throat he clears is rough, how ironic
Since drinking a five ounce bottle of cough suppressant and smoking three joints down
His fingers are numb and act as spoiled children, incapable of civility on worn keyboards
On multitasking he fails, the new joint lays dead 'neath his once deft hands, wringing
Stench of smokey tobacco and ash from the splitting of old cigarettes for rolling tobacco
and roaches, sticky with resin, dripping on cheap wood desktops and staining pajamas
His hands no longer work, as the spirits have taken hold and disassociation is supreme
There's a cam model in the tab by the one he writes, frittering between the two
Inspiration for the loneliest of souls on wistful whistling autumnal nights, and the winds are howling
Everything around him is cold to the touch, the window's been open for hours now
and here is linguistic death upon your eyes and in such beautiful formats
Did Burroughs burrow too with the door-mouse on the first days of fall, when the world did end
and love left for the south and the curtains of Britain were drawn with pretty girls on postcards
This language is too morbid for him, and the land's aghast when tires screech in the night
The itching begins about now, with a furrow of the poets brow, liberation grows sour
The name Alice reminds him of her and the itching remains but a new itch needs scratching
Tired and free, discordant and discarded with the rest when all are in bed and I can attest
Do not re-read for he is ill of nationality and the land falls away each night beside the doorstep
He no longer watches screens or sees in colour, no time is passing but he grows older
Shaking when the westward winds howl in city streets and foxes rummage in overturned bins
It's cold but not too cold; cold enough to need a blanket but not too cold as to need two
He's an ambling rambler when he gambles with the shambles
But when the mind is beaten by the by he sighs and says goodbyes

The wooded lands are a beacon tonight
and life is on the horizon

Singular door-mouse scuttles in hedgerows, euphoric and chasing nothing
The greying clouds overhead loom low in the evening haze,
and vast orange illuminations in the west are a cold blanket desiring human warmth
Myriad ebon patterns in a southerly direction, ridiculous in their grandeur
She wanted a classic romanticism, not the hand sanitizer before bed routine
He missed the way she lay across his throat, choking in the dead of night
The stoic pool in the back yard was lonely again, when the blackbirds took leave

What day is this, when the apples no longer grow and love lives in another house?

Disregarded and rusted, the deodorant can chimes discordantly along some gravel drive
and a plastic bag is caught on an updraft, emulating some movie or art piece, pretentious in its nature
and whole trees stand naked, swaying in phantom dancehalls to some unfathomable songstress
Only the lonely are walking tonight and he is there, with them... alone
She stands in doorways recounting past dreams and wishing for wishes to be real
The peach coloured blinds are closed and sirens are dead in this, the saddest of nights

What hands are these, that type such things, and why tonight do I see these images in frosty car windows and street lamps flickering?

Still the door-mouse scurries and finds but a single berry, the last thought of seasons past
- the sun is dead, and to that end the moon does wryly nod
Never listen to those voices on ethereal winds for they tell so many lies
and in autumnal twilight a beacon is present but only in distant hills, when the wind catches her breath

The nicotine daybreak comes later each day and the nights are a drag
Burning embers of the cigarette summertime fade each passing second
- conforming to some ambiguous cosmic clock, of which we ignore daily
A steady pulse of whistling nostalgia to guide him to sleep
Hoping to dream, always hoping to dream

There's a mantra carved into a tree behind the old music department at the local school
On it reads a message to every solitudinarian with looming sadness on his head
She found these words carved when the bark was damp and bare
Pursing her lips as she read them aloud, her words vanishing into the crisp evening air
Laying her head in seasoned leaves and forcing her hand to a dull night sky
She sang a song of past lovers, and softly in the breeze, she began to cry

Her name was Hannah and I loved her blonde hair
Tender young woman on the streets, price was fair
Meeting at the corner of Forest Road, he said she'd know where
Marvin hooked me up, my training was complete
Time to get back on the horse, really find my feet
She jumped in my car, I smelt a perfume so sweet
She flashed me a smile and wished I was her
At this point I didn't know what was to occur
To be in this girl's skin is what I would prefer
We took a room at the seedy hotel in town
Closing the door, I turn around, she sat down
She took off my jeans, all she had was a frown
I told her I knew her Daddy and he treated me real mean
She got up to go, so I struck her face, it came keen
Told her I was his slave from the age of eighteen
The smirk on her face filled me with manly rage
Again she tried to leave, so I truly blew my gauge
A swift punch took her down, bruised her rib cage
I tore into her **** uniform and took what was mine
Begging me to stop but it was already too late to decline
I used her body in masculine rage, treated her like swine
And when I was done I left her crying on the bed as I left
I just took something from her but it didn't feel like theft
I got what I wanted so I didn't think of how she was bereft
Said to her as I left that if she told Marvin, she would die
She lay crying on the bed, so there was no word of reply
Quickly left the seedy hotel and look up at the night sky
Marvin took my masculinity so I took it out on his girl
What do I have to lose, I've got nothing in this world
He'll look for me soon, revenge in my mind, time to give it a whirl

The bass hits hard in the back seat of a car
Passing zoots back & forth, here we are
Hoods up, the man dem looking for war
Pistol gripped, left hand, and we're sure
Trying to **** a man tonight for the cause
Man got the cash, that's right, that's ours
Trying to get that food for the fight, for the boys
Animals in black masks holding their toys

Orders from above as we arrive at the spot
To the place where the man-a get popped
Shifty looking bloke in a hood, we've been clocked
Every man rush from the car on the block
Running with the crew with my hand on my... glock
Round the corner, right towards the shops
At that point the man we pursue just stops
At that point all we hear is gun shots
Rodney got shot, Malcolm got shot
Barry got shot, Marvin got shot
Mans on the roof picking us off like dogs
I let the banger blare, but I know I lost the plot

Took a hasty retreat on my lonesome in the dark
Made a left by the pub and ended up at the park
Man still chasing me, I know they're not far
I need to get back to my crew and the car
I'll probably be dead before I get past the bar
I kept on towards my estate, just to be sure
No long ting, I don't want a grand tour
Shook the man off when I got to my door

But when I got inside, the only thing that I saw
The faces of my dead friends and a land of no law

Through peach coloured faded blinds, you watch him type on ashen keyboards
Low music playing, he used to cut her hair, she was breathing
Words from a soul, or words from dictionaries faded as the blinds and walls and clothes on his back
A team of typists, all in a line (factory work and the repetitiveness of city living)
You notice the desk, cheap and flat-pack, worn markings exposition of veneer and wood
Did you spot the reference, or did it pass your eyes,
- are you a fan?
His derivative verse of Bukowski and the like is painful to eyes and corroding of the soul
Have you seen the bees flee?
Watch as the lights turn dead, and the oven burns red
I'm not sure if one could call it homely; his home
The way darkness arrives early each night above that house alone
and the way rabid foxes walk in large circles to avoid the shadow cast
You hear him cry at night
(and I feel ashamed at noticing you)

He sets himself alight, to feel something new
You watch from your couch and flip the channel

Are the old haunts getting older still,
by the night's final adieu, a wild dog scampers home
To lay beneath the old car with grass in the engine
and we both know the house is burning

The flashing lights in the street and the coked up vagrants dance rhythmically
Smoke contortions over the grassy morning dew
A girl with a vacant stare, from a bench afar, watches and flicks broken nails
Everything you are is nothing you want, still watching from the window
Pacing. Pacing.

(I am on the rooftop, and I saw it all.)

Forgive such indifference, sat beneath a peach tree shaded
Cocksure, word of mouth, rambling through the straw
Squirrel gnaws bark on the ground, and leaps away vibrant
The sun was wild, in the sky she sings
The heat she brings, Mother watching, smiles
Sir, did you see the Big Sur. Sure did, young sir
Australia weeps for she misses the heroine in a green dress
- and with spry wrangling hands, gliding from a cliff-top
The endlessly named Mrs of the fire does soar
Forever on the shore
Forever and some more

Turn to the moon and remember how she swooned
Mother nature's child, oasis in the wooded world
Long leaves of the languid days
Beneath the peach tree she lays
Lighter in the breeze, swinging chaotic
In voluptuous trees, she's symbiotic
The new sensation of grass at your back
When the cold brick saloon in memoriam
is only Sunday's idea of boredom
and the grasshoppers are chirping
and now the city is quiet
For it waits, for her