The sun went down like a crackhead on a whore,
with colours hallucinated by a ditched bride
afloat in pink bath water,
carving `jilted` in her arms
with French manicured nails.
The night set in killing light like cancer
blackening cells
within your favourite relative
or television celebrity.
I pulled the curtains shut
like a west end tragedy
matinee performance
on a drizzle soaked Wednesday afternoon,
where the pavements have messages
within bubble gum hieroglyphs
and buses streak red through towers of grey,
whilst men carry moats within rims of bowler hats.
I fell to sleep like a magicians assistant,
stepping into a cabinet
to emerge behind the audience sucking
on a flaming lollipop.
Everybody talks about a new world in the morning.
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