The Erratic Circus
Greenlighter
His face suddenly naked without the shadows of despair that masked it through twenty full calendars of time here..disappears to death.
Everything he leaves behind is nothing now but a whisper that nobody will come to mourn for.
That existence of him which twisted in tight knots and dark corners until he resembled no-one's father, child, lover.
Gone into that winter of his.
Humanity is bled away in the many rooms
Memories as delicate as air fight to escape
For to become nothing more than a forgotten occasion
dulled by circumstance and no longer even recalled in some ragged tribute to a fond recollection.
An existence of nothing but the need to mutter and to shuffle.....is the saddest of all.
Someone with his whole life asleep upon his lap like a dog sits to wait...and wait.
Waiting for things which will always now elude him.
Chased by wine. Unlatched with a weakness sharper than the strength of fight.
He cuts out his pain with blades and waits to be dead.
This nightmare he never dared wish upon himself becomes the only thing left that can help him now.
It becomes the dream.
Forgotten people
Someone's first lover once
Pocketed by the devil of all this.
The perfumed breath of last hopes clings corridor deep and dormitory wide.
It floats to be worn and worn out.
Paced by too many hours and lifetimes of torment.
The fragrance of nothing worth keeping is a sickly stench.
It rests upon stairs in Camden, London.
Concrete and unswept in it's welcome.
Bastards and this city
Not even half ashamed of skeleton packed cupboards within the grand walls.
Ambitious intention abandoned years since
Victorian of shape and value.
Arlington House weeps loud and forever.
*For the forgotten and the lost of Arlington House Hostel For Homeless Men in Camden Town. London.
Everything he leaves behind is nothing now but a whisper that nobody will come to mourn for.
That existence of him which twisted in tight knots and dark corners until he resembled no-one's father, child, lover.
Gone into that winter of his.
Humanity is bled away in the many rooms
Memories as delicate as air fight to escape
For to become nothing more than a forgotten occasion
dulled by circumstance and no longer even recalled in some ragged tribute to a fond recollection.
An existence of nothing but the need to mutter and to shuffle.....is the saddest of all.
Someone with his whole life asleep upon his lap like a dog sits to wait...and wait.
Waiting for things which will always now elude him.
Chased by wine. Unlatched with a weakness sharper than the strength of fight.
He cuts out his pain with blades and waits to be dead.
This nightmare he never dared wish upon himself becomes the only thing left that can help him now.
It becomes the dream.
Forgotten people
Someone's first lover once
Pocketed by the devil of all this.
The perfumed breath of last hopes clings corridor deep and dormitory wide.
It floats to be worn and worn out.
Paced by too many hours and lifetimes of torment.
The fragrance of nothing worth keeping is a sickly stench.
It rests upon stairs in Camden, London.
Concrete and unswept in it's welcome.
Bastards and this city
Not even half ashamed of skeleton packed cupboards within the grand walls.
Ambitious intention abandoned years since
Victorian of shape and value.
Arlington House weeps loud and forever.
*For the forgotten and the lost of Arlington House Hostel For Homeless Men in Camden Town. London.
