by Andrew Peter Grant
Saturday, January 11, 2003
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A weak morning desire for wretched self-oblivion
Awakes to the smells of street combusion and heat.
I curse various clocks for bringing me from my sheets.
Damp, clean, and warm, they shelter my timid eyes;
Corrupted with such brutal tastes for erotic power.
My boney frame shakes as it hangs a weak mess
In the bitter air. A pityful and vile statue, I cloathe it,
Without any respect or pause for appearance.
The mirror echoes a contempt, a discreet paranoia,
And sadness of a pair of such silent, black eyes.
The air, the rooms, sweat a furore of archeic hostility,
And decaying walls give home to rank, pungant dirt.
Stacked plates reeking foul with leftover carcasses
Are teased into collapsing by the morning mobs;
Empty and cursed with a tired, sluggish posture.
A winding stairwell of childish scrawlings and stones
Makes way for the grey choke of deadly carriages.
And said shit begins to crawl down me with malice.
Motorists pass me and I dream of a violent collision;
Anything to rid me of this reality I'm stricken within.
Fools litter paths inside my monument of education.
They vomit their ugly vendettas and wild tantrums;
Such a picture of censorship of the mind are these!
For it's unfashionable to hold dear any principles.
They crave to paralyse their kin by shareholdering.
Crawling through a binge of incompetant desires
I pass reservoirs of simple and mediocre possessions,
Where totalitarian garments are at my convenience.
This sodden granite town feels so stale to my senses!
From a birth it infects their quiet eyes in a designer heat.
Colours and phrases drag brutish children deep within
A murderous bloody cavern on a daylit Union Street
With their stupid, stupid parents on tow with hard cash.
It sickens me as they consume genocide with glee!
And take-away boxes drift by me in the northern wind.
Home to an early nightfall and dancing neighbours.
Friday night; a time for them to kiss the bottle
And find comfort sleeping rotten in a street corner.
I have to sheild my ears and eyes from nightlife horrors,
Finding solice in my hovel I dream of splendour.