Whilst Watching Queensway

I am going under
under the pipes behind the sink
I am going somewhere
closer to a darker brink
further from the torturous city
lights of London’s rain
where rancid depictions
of gin awash the brain

oh! the bottles, the endless
bottles at eleven a.m.
and how these sober Londoners
think it far beneath them

I stand, holding broken bouquets
that you left me as the
dirty glare of money’s light
is all the others see

To try to brake away
and desire not to play
these grim moneyed games
shortens the gin-soaked day
but it never works
we are firm in the claws
we sealed the walls thrice
and padlocked the doors

so let us talk of it no more
something coaxes the T.V.
it is loud and feels naughty
like a fiercely crashing sea
it enters into my mind
into each miserable depth
but suddenly goes blank
and here there is nothing left

Bring it back! Darn it!
the television must be played
it must shout or how else
would indecisive minds be swayed?

It’s all loathing and beer
in these desolate streets
all the moneyed, suited folk
rising with jealous heats
far above the land
hiding in a Kensington palace
rings on fingers, whores in bed
and treat them to lustrous malice

But that is London, we suppose
bricks and silver furnish the meadows
raging taxis, sad old drunks
and all the rich behoused fellows

This is steam, that drives us on
the fuel of life, drunk and sad
these are humans, slow and wrong
petty and broken, raving mad

but madness, if followed by all
becomes the tedious norm
I scour and search for a drop of change
but these men are as incessant as dawn

yes: all boring and predictable
speak it not for I know what you say
each grey hair appears the same
and every word defines mundane

Death then on those who scrounge
around for life, for we know
all that awaits us at the end
is a vacant spot on desolation row

And this frigid air surrounds
I cannot feel it anymore
my lungs and heart are desperate
and each of my limbs is sore

I am tired and I am lonely
this city furnishes me with hate
for all who wander around here
on a futile march to a sad fate