Empty of everything the cloud looks magnificent,
The sun has gone and all dark the conifer looks at me,
And music always outside my window makes sense
Now all is over and I’m bird nest bound, holding up in a
Rusholme cell where every cockroach I kill marks me out
The killer I am inside, the self-effacement I commit.
I have nothing to watch, nothing to do, all that is said
Is not of me and my ilk – discourse is nothing for me
And creates no one, the laughter of ages disappears
In an old black and white TV programme that wiles away
The night blearing loudly (no one watching) and early
Morning wake-up calls confound my presence is not
My own, but no one cares, they never will, and this will
Always be the case for me, I will be in the same place
In a thousand years, silence will not alter that, so I go on.