He's In The Dorchester

Miss, miss - you and I haven't got a hope in hells chance.
But there is a certain romance to it, I am sure.
The frantic sighs, before his eyes, a glance
The great redundant you, salt of yews
And sycamores.
What growth you are, these orchids have
A Christian type of solitude. The wings

Are made of pig elastic, cats in anoraks
And goose-step boots. Red Stalingrad carpets and telegrams
Full of platitudes, and old, old news.
A painted nude, you have been stripped bare
Of all your eyes have fought wars to say. I've been paying your debts forever,
But you know that I,
Would never have it any other way.

You have all the pity that you want from me,
You have all the words I have, for everything you'd ever want to say.
The lesser god he is, when god is evil,
But I - I have the strangest
Aptitude for all of these things, I try to find meaning
Where there is no meaning, dive in this sea of sinews,

And swim, away. How long it takes for them to grow
Tails, the devil's nostril flares, I pray for wounds that I can
Sell and masquerade, on hands, feet, foreheads, and tears
Of blood from eyes. I wish you here then I grow bored
I wish you all away and wish for war.
The doctor pays me lip service, i pay his bills.
Trading illnesses for syringes, and any other pill I can get my hands on.

My hands are black from handling fire, cold as ice, as hard as uncured leather
Your black eye in my bright green one, you lunatic
Come creep out from beneath your gun. My bullet lungs

Sort of things like bones. Atrocious hosts in stone walled houses,
Some truth of imagination, the keening ghosts, feeding
On that old life's addiction. The air! My prayers are ether, traveling out
To be heard centuries later. My old shelter, brown brick,
Embellished by swirls, bad acid trip of mine. Mine - I!
She is not myself; I am she, a parody throwing shapes
Beneath the shadows.

In the green green grass. Navy sky with yellow scars pricked in the
Blanket. Red sky at night, red sky in morning - boys, boys, the
Alarms! Sirens! Warning.
Warnings, warring, warring, you! What I do, what I did - hit the bottle, threw a fit
Broke my neck, and I forgave it, I shrived

These things that died, that were never supposed to die.
O, my life.