The damp rose with the morning warmth
As little green men flash,
The neon sign that was made to destroy
Night and day,
And the red ones too
Halting fierce ambitions, to get to work
Preventing the momentum of the day,
When it’s only a 5th the way through.
For years before I had missed
Bustling church congregations, five minutes before the hour,
An old Italian truth-holder delivering to many,
Few really hear, he’s not Italian, Hungarian but
Lived there all his life and
A shimmering light whilst he honest hotel lady
Opens up, the place dusty again and the ever-tired
Prostitute shuts windows, pulls blinds, craves oblivion.
And it seems infinitely more can happen
In the heat of the morning, where
Falling leaves cement the groundwork for a while
And the place isn’t informed bout’ the
Infinite scorn of the news, for a while
And the sun rises, cash-tillers groan
Imposters impost, compost dries, giving rise to
Another day, a day of coke bottles in the wind.
Sep 20th 2013.