The crimson crescent descends upon an obscure village.
The pages are turned and situations are engaged, locked into a web, an alive, glowing web of being.
The phone rings the caller is waiting. A hand clasps the receiver and the terminal connects.
“Hi it’s me!”
The moon hangs like a pale yellow cyst in a starless night.
The street is deserted now and a chill northern wind tosses the newspapers around like pathetic ghosts.
They thrash limply along the narrow alley.
A figure crouched in the doorway its face tinged with an orange glow from a cigarette.
Glowing deeply glowing.
Maybe the possibility exists that you can believe your own heart?
But see the man who waits with a book in his hand while crouching on his knees.
Muttering those solemn words as humanity flees its self-effacing structures.
All tattered and torn, broken and forlorn.
Your saving grace is wearing thin
While the horsemen ride by
Severing your phony tribal ties
With their sanctity.
Shirts along the highway robbery
English is full of trickery
And your head is a mockery
Moan groan you’re really all alone
Hanging on to your immobile telephone.
Erections in cars
Girls and garages
Strung out in the LA night
Some are born to sleep the night
Some are born to sweet delight
Some are born to the endless night.
Some are trapped in eternal fright.