staring into fractal clouds tearing my eyes on the cut-glass light
penetrating my lashes
and a japanese man talking to me but i see the terrible edges and the tinder tree twigs
over the tops of the church,
the steeple
and the monstrous distance
sleep and a numerous crowd of bats and music and the dull ember lighting breath,
holding their peace for the moment - a righteous crowd of pimps and prigs
speaking all at once - a dazed assembly of drifters
crowding paths and portals of the capital
fear and desperation and their awesome aching need
a godawful opening of dedicated connections with the one bright bastard spinning away from the stain on the floor with the chirping of a tattered consciousness and a hole mouthing words and a red roaring with exhausted lungs and do i know the way to South Kensington?
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