In this town, the tower blocks stand above the clouds,
the street lights illuminate the granite pathways,
as you walk, you will kick a package of cigarettes
depicting a very sick woman -
they sell them in the corner shops.

In this town, I have seen the worst mind’s of my generation,
flourish in the un-fertile fields like
flowers that grow on a soil
of cigarette ends and syringes
chewing gum, coffee cups, oranges.
Condoms, crisp packets, needles,
Rare paintings that hang on the walls of the mind,
torn down by the authorities,
painted over with white.
Lost in a sea of machinery.
And bright light’s.

In this town, in the gutter of the pavements,
vile creatures will reach out there shaking hands.
Varicose veins, blackened nails, drooling mouths,
and beady wanting eyes begging you for pennies.
Dismissed by city boys suicidal from the stress.
Some look a mess, some feel a mess.
It’s all the same, the endless city strain.
In this town, when your eyes look up,
you see the birds flying in pain,
from these ******* factories filling
the air with smoke killing
the natural ecstasy of the sky,
and they fall from the sky and die.

And they wonder why kids
reach for the knives and the guns.
Wonder why they cut their arms.
Smoke and smoke and smoke to feel calm.
Wonder why they hang from structures.
Wonder why they paint obscenities on the walls of schools.
Wonder why they drawl
at the site of death
when it follows them everywhere
from podium’s in the wealthy churches.
To the cemetery gates,
To the news broadcasts.

Wonder why they disappear for weekends
Somewhere lost in a city of escapism
Wonder why they howl fowl verse
Strums on guitars,
hit at the drums.
Wonder why they linger in dark alleys. And dead ends.
With money, clutched by shaking fingers, seeking amends.

In this town, you wake to the marching boots;
The sound of the army that walk the city streets
In a uniform of suits, and guns in the shape of suitcases
All with similar faces, similar hats,
You will wake to the scream of the birds & the cats,
The scream of babies
The scream of love
They scream of could be, should be, would be and maybe’s
The hope.



Suffocated by the marching armies
By the dictators
that are the tower’s, the factories, the school’s
  that stand above the clouds,
   in these towns.

I used to be a razor blade
So bright and sharp from care
I cut and cut and cut and cut,
Steel gleaming oh so fair

I used to be a razor blade
But now my whit is rust
My passions dulled, my metal cooled
And I am afraid

Hands fidget under the cover of darkness.
They reach and burn, so willing
to tear each other apart
their fingertips brand their surface
into the earth
to revel in the blood pooling beneath them.
I can feel the touch of Paranoia
on the back of my neck,
can hear her whispering a melody
of broken bones and twisted branches
pulling at my skin. The bitter bile
seeps from her mouth when she kisses me,
promising that the sweet relief of loss
will never come back to retrieve
what it so eagerly forgot.
There's a fire burning, eating her eyes,
dissolving the tip of her rotting tongue as she sings
and lingering, dancing, on her skin.
Her hands could be music or taste
dwelling softly on your lips
but they are the thunder of broken
chords, the discord of dying
wolves howling the same song, decade
after decade, to moonless skies. Hatred blooms
in dripping clusters beneath her feet,
biting my heels and twisting
until they find my spine and pull, pull it
into the depths of the earth, replacing it
with acidic vines which poison
the flesh of my body and leave me,
blind, waiting for the paralysis of death.

I've seen to it to be left about,
a coursing, hushing let down.
To prove to you I leave rot out,
I see what's best about my withering brown.

A coursing, hushing let down-
take this as seriously as I say I do.
I see what's best about my withering brown.
My equinox benefits only you.

Take this as seriously as I say I do.
I'll come back and fall to fruit,
(my equinox only benefits you)
when warm tides cause seeds to root.

I'll come back and fall to fruit,
so see it to be left about.
A warm tide caused seeds to root,
I prove it and leave the rot out.

The withering plant
of despair and loneliness
the decaying leaves
of love

The crashing waves
of untold tortured
that decays thoughts
of happiness

The smoldering flames
of love lost again
that decays the heart
in my chest

like the decaying pain
and sadness, and joy
nothing is left
my mind is numb

Potholes sprinkled across empty Detroit streets
     like bullet holes in ***** bedsheets

Found within the vacant homes of the forgotten,
     alive with reminders of what used to be

Before the neighborhoods became abundant in abandoned homes
     and awash with abandoned people

Yearning for forgotten yesterdays suspended far from reach,
     searching for a memory of something concrete

While wandering along the crooked, cracked sidewalks
     cemented with resentments;

Forgotten, forsaken, forlorn, foreboding... foreclosure
     crisis spray-painted on the brick of a blown out home

Hungry for habitation despite dishevelment,
     *explicit with endless nothingness

The smell of Autumn soil always digs a grave for me, with every cold breath drawing me back.
I’m just a spec of blue in this sea of amber and gold decay,
So out of place, desiring to sink and rot quietly, comfortably, becoming everything with nothing.

I belong here, and yet I cannot stay.
This warm blooded, cold breathing dragon bellows steam into the morning.
I close my eyes to the sun, but still she blinds me.
I am heavy with burden, fighting not to fall under this weight.
Just another broken heart,
Trying so **** hard not to fall apart.