Camden Lock In

It's the stale loaf of bread staring at me
with its poppy seed eyes,
it irks me into disbelieving
it jolts me into submission of the fact
that it is dead.

I cut a rusty core now hard and mouldy,
and thaw it gently in my palm.
'What ever did you lose, my friend?
What ever did you wonder?
What ever did you see?'

If today a different day had happened,
and i a different mask had worn,
become an other, better person,
a giving soul entwined with hope,
I'd take it to the pigeons and the ducks
and fill their greedy stomachs
'till they flew and swam no more.

Yet this is a crisp November afternoon,
striding across a street so full
of boring, empty faces
buying figures of the moon
I see
A crying woman
A homeless drunk
A scabby junkie
And I lithely fill my coffee cup
with a sugary ugly laugh.

This dreary-eyed November
touched my wounds with its frozen sun,
and naked in myself
i gorged on lack of warmth
and spotted once again beside me
the ghost of the man of stone.

He whispers

It's in the tip of my fingers
cracked and lame and stiff,
to kill a helpless spinster.
It's in the womb of my wicked art,
to bring about the birth of winter,
to cut the ties with summers past.

And there's a statue, right in front of me,
a lazy, mediocre Venus
holding offerings of passion, blood and love.
She sighs and screams and screeches
her wild orgasmic treasure trove.

Shut the fuck up Venus.
You only ever shagged my broken heart.