This is about the city and the people who slip through the cracks in society. I wrote it after a conversation with an old homeless man.
Remark from the gutter:
‘How ‘bout, half past never?’
Downtrodden, trodden down with gunblack boots. Trampled into,
Gum residue. Stiff like a good collar under a good suit.
Hollow abscess horror. Rib sticking. Sucking flesh:
Ersatz real. Broken like bad china skin peel.
Frieze at the ministry
This church, neglected church.
Acid scars, cardboard bedheads for the gloom. Stuffed into,
Dirty tins. Showered with the binjuice of the loom.
Old Harry on his shoulder like a parrot stuffed.
Acid scars. Eyes jagged like bust dodgem cars.
Fingers light in poverty
Fingered by silver, gold
Sold flesh, hand of Harry chokes his neck like a collar. Blueblack horror,
Paving cracks. The moralizer accompanies through cut throat.
And the old goat steps in front of the number nine.
Paving cracks. I never caught his name in time.