markbousfield

IT'S 4AM AGAIN...

...on an empty (Chapel) market street,
the cigarette I don't smoke hangs on my ear,
the tiredness of it all aches behind every joint,
each sinew of last night's veins contracts
to a melody of the company, of the love I passed over.

I dry the tattered edges,
damn,
human viscera shot from the barrel of a gun,
the same face I have worn for four days straight now,
the forced smile of enlightenment,
and the shadows,
God the shadows under my eyes
don't lie to the fact that I'm late again,

...and a slipped finger into the boss's daughter...

I'd have to be...in a dream,
in a bind,
dropping an apple from the fifth floor on to the ridiculous head,
and my blood runs thicker and it's been 24 hours awake
from the likely sounds of a numb number of breaths
under...

whatever

I guess I'll never know.

And I watched Pascal as he ate another,
the drippings of the choking cloud
spilling up the floor and down the ceiling'd walls,
the gait of my legs and the bow of the light fittings,
spindling along in the darkness of it all,
and it is fucking dark down here,
behind the trees,
under the trains.

Bed side lights and candle fights...

...Christ

I hide my last few pills,
the everlasting reminder of all I need,
of a picture of sin rising with the sun
coming over all empty like on the market stall street,

Ash'd wrappers and seeds strewn,
In the middle of a fading celluloid picture
the smile of sharing a life leaves me on the corner
rubbing my hands on her sphincter.

Yes, that's what I need to keep my hands a little warmer.