Strewn upon the sparse tea-stained floor.
Christmas Time and I,
In a Box in the Corner -
The room still and will lie unadorned with Glitter within my Eyes.
A crate upside down is my table,
Such furniture used by smooth Clark Gable?
Sharp, groomed, tidy, moustached,
Unadorned by half eaten hungry fingers n Eyes Lamb Chops.
Bob Dylan playin' his favourite tunes,
Clever 'n' cool,
Nobody's fool-
He'd make the antiquated the in-thing to do.
Laid back 'Play Misty' in deep tones,
Bathed in good music,
Lock the Door,
Turn off the Phone.
Unread newspapers to straddle,
with intent to read, and
Crossword to attempt.
But somehow there's too much
And no time to make amends;
Yes, the house and hair to brush,
Teeth and worktops to scrub the land, downtown land;
Then relax in ease and comfort lie back:
No
Don't think where it's all going,
Nor the places where its been;
The whereabouts of my friends the ragged people -
and the aching, dying monsters -
The deterioration of what they've seen 'n' been.
Christmas shopping,
Feel better to toss a coin
At the Priest now Itinerant,
Whose faith has faded 'n' passed away,
Camouflaged by the Decaying furniture
Of the Streets.
Yes, "The Shadow", the black & white detective knows,
The radio stumbles across to say,
Another concept to try not think about,
Pots and pans and well-being Strays.
when did this transpire out of that cleaved mind I don't call a self?
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