in parentheses

I.

Got drunk in the citysludge tonight. Ran the pockets lined with dough. Struck a poorman to his death and salvation. Regret the cigarette lost to a poker. Remember always that summer in november. Bronze days without remorse. Ugly throats for the hugging. Pruning babes for the sucking. Limp bodies for the fucking. Gather with the lonely doves. Drink the thirty-one days done.

II.

Running from bars and bathroom fights. Vomitting mad chuckles the blood that pours a sludge from my skull. Whimper and the streets’ll empty. Wide avenues that end in the river like vapour. Disgrace played out like a dance of shattering bones on the edge of the stone. First blood. His skull warm in hand. A mushy pie his brain and eye. A convocation for all dead poets at the café au départ where all men burn water for smoke.

III.

Splayed on the gare steps like the dying without blood. The rats still scrambling the long nights of the brain. A country with no stars. Winter sky abloom. Orange the glow of smog searing the bedroom walls. The furnace pulse the sentinel god upon the lighthouse tower. A man comes and pisses from diamond studded lips. Now in the covers the bedraggled gives kiss to babes lowing with dreams. Lies the bedding down in piss and shit. Cries in cityholes and echoes whimpering. The god says homefree tonight you sleep master and king.