In his anguished gut, there lay
a lot of coffee, woke up with
the god head lot once again,
broken angels swam round his head,
worked like a sinning saint, most
every day. A gas man's son of
thirty-three years, had no ill health,
but for the floods that fell
from his eyes, for a wife fell
through, left cupboard inside
with blue and white value stripes,
and the vodka there so
crystal to promote his life,
a big man with no height.

Small boy now, left in town
to start fights, al fresco blood,
on the dark paved streets,
he takes breath, wants the other side.
His supper chopped ham
from tins bubble fried,
ten bastards gonna get it before
the light, ten men in big white, go
faster taxis, blue siren stripes.
Leaving, all that's left are witches
cackles and painted on eyebrows,
no pointers, at
three o'clock for a gas man's son to wonder,
of more than just his bloodied hands.

H.Math