Soiled.

The paths of men wistfully wander by,
Whilst the boy stands to the west of the fly-bys-
Watching the highly sexed,
A barrage of them;
Jumbled numbers of houses with street names,
But faces none the less.

And the air stands still,
And the air moves,
And the air stands still,
And the air moves.

Hulking figures in the fog of senses lost,
Touching, reaching out to the highest of numbers at the lowest of costs,
And it’s right there;
Where they toss and throw the rubbish in the trash cans,
It’s a No Man’s Land,
No Man’s Land but his.

And she sways, reminiscent of a burlesque dancer,
Jiggling her way into the pockets of filthy lucre and doomed alters.

And the air stands still,
And the air moves,
The air stands still.

Things are stirring in the kitchen,
Stoves heating pots,
And then;
The solace,
A quietness,
A pleading,
The drying of chillies.

Cracked and smashed by the screaming, silent.
Screaming;
A cry to never get old,
A cry for the maps of the world, not to creep onto the faces of the debased,
Or it will be traced and tracked,
To the stoves that heat the pots,
And only then, all is lost.

A quietness,
A pleading,
The drying of chillies.

Crevices in turmoil, wrapped in hospital foil.
Come home to way back,
Where the real turmoil tried and tested, and manifested in the presence.
But you, over there, just do what you’ve always done;
Ejaculate
Ejaculate
Ejaculate.

A quietness,
A pleading,
The drying of chillies.

Looking as dead as those six feet under,
Now is not the time to wonder or contemplate,
Because she is reduced to flesh.

And we and I and you and us,
Are we and I and you and us,

But she is flesh,
Flesh
Flesh
Flesh

Six feet under,
Now is not the time to wonder,
As she, lies six feet under.

Soiled.