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On drugs to scald the heavens,
Bully-necked and the arms of a rower,
To the maddened moon he makes his cries,
From the chatter-gape of his hole
Spew muddled lies …

In the dark street at night time,
Expressed surprise,
An empty clatter of cold, bare glass
Rummaging the still air,
His new signature –

Caught in a life he never expected,
From the nursery toys to this,
He parades his dementia and loose, full hope
To the calling moon

As the swirling tides of his madness
Knock and beckon on the locked black doors
Of his consciousness:
No woman would touch him.

A wonder, then, to see him at work,
If work is what it is,
Surrounded by the black-backed leather-clad
Who ooze from the pores of the world
To swim with him through his destruction.

November 2001

A drug-crazed young man in my neighbourhood, bellowing out to the world and on a personal mission of destruction, surrounded by thugs

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