It is dark in the room
No light … nothing.
Am I in a cell? A room?
Did I pay the hydro bill?

A shagged carpet under my feet .. my cold blue feet
Cold.. icicles of breath surrounding myself
A gush of arctic wind from the creeking boards

I need a drink
A stiff drink
Jack or Johnny
Black or red … just a burning sensation down my throat

Where am I ?
What do I do .. a holder of pens
Wanted to conquer the world with my pen
A mighty pen.. how flaccid it is now…

Strapped to a bed.. am I now? Where the hell am I now?

The dream again

A girl in the blue jacket.. the same girl.. the dead girl…she looks at me.. with her green eyes and screams.. a thousand crows fly from her mouth… attack me.. and a thousand rat jump from her hair and start biting me.. one rat upon another.. flesh everywhere.. blood..ruby blood… green flesh…me and pain and the teeth of rats.

Thinking about Home
The last woman who kissed me
I am on the road … what road.. fuck

Strapped to a bed.. I saw death
I saw innocence death.. i saw the ripper of the hill

He snatched them from under the bus stop sign
Up on the hill by route 10
Yes this is the story of death.. a ripper and an alcoholic bystander.
A tale not to be trusted nor believed.
A tale like one of those Arabian Nights.. Sinbad and his peeps

Death, when it comes from behind the red line.
A line of blood, coagulated in the gutter of life.

Death as the by product of life. Of oxygen. Of love. Of butterflies approaching the flame.
Death.. the sweet smell of almond on a spring night by the chalk hills of Dover.

Death.. the blinding zapping thunder that travels through us, in us, within us..at the speed of a flicker.

That’s how death came to them.. the streets walkers up the hill by the Route 10 bus that summer.. swiftly and sweet.

Me. The third of my generation in a semi detached three bedroom house by the pharmacy down the hill. A small window of an office overlooking the dreadful bus stop. A five by eight room, white walls.. the trace of asbestos in the ceiling.. a battered desk in one corner.. olive green curtains.. two mattresses on top of each others by the radiator..a baby blue typewriter oiled and stocked with lined paper…three neatly piles of books, in various shapes and forms on the grey carpet.. a pot of yesterday’s coffee slowly coagulating in the pot.

The smell of spring in an Atlantic port.
The smell of wild berries in bogs.
The blackbirds at dawn, declaring the start of a new day.
Light slowly cutting through the ebony of the night.

They have been there.. under the window since the beginning of time. Silhouettes, shadows and figures against the wall.. reflecting in the night.. under a burnt light. A laugh.. a shout.. a cry of despair…

“ I am not a prostitute .. I need my fix”
I am not a prostitute… I need my hit
Go away from me you pig
A mantra every night.. Goodnight Josephine

Come on baby
(Don’t fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand
(Don’t fear the reaper)
We’ll be able to fly
(Don’t fear the reaper)
Baby I’m your man

A destiny to be imprisoned between the sea from one side and a flaming field. Trapped. Caged.


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