South London

Gin and tonic is wicked like vultured corpses
The tunnel vision of abortion, panicked and loud

Although she makes me frown, and my brain gets clammed
By the unwinding rattles of a marching band
In storm, flawless, alone
I write the vows that lie me with death
Fueled by the useless births of a thousand souls
I voice the mute nation of a breathless slumber

Trench coats in the wind,
Candles for the graves
In puddles of pissed off wine bibbing pricks
I am not one to point fingers
But wave the tab of a bottomless glass
That keeps me happy... for a while

I smile and dose off to a chain smoke of dirty dreams
Piling the shame to the name of a porttrait
Undone in time by the poems of a shameless sinner
A casualty in the making