SUNDAY, THE MORNING.

…..AND ON THE BROW OF THE HILL AS THE NIGHT SLIDES THE SLOPE
THE SUN RISES HANGING ON THE END OF A ROPE
IN THE BACK OF A CAR, THERE’S A DOLL WITH ONE ARM
A MAN MANGLES CHICKEN, FRESH-DEAD FROM THE FARM
TWO SWOLLEN AND RED-FACED MEN IN THE STREET
WATCH WHILE A WOMAN’S BREAST BEATS TO HER FEET,
TAKING LARGE BITES - INTO THEIR MEAT

SUNDAY, THE MORNING, IS HEROIN PALE,
HOLLOWING SOCKETS LIE FRAIL WHERE THEY FLY
WHILE ONLY A NEEDLE WATCHES WITH EYE
SILVER AND RIGID, A WISH FOR MORPHINE,
TO SPIKE UP THIS TOWN, TO SUPPRESS THE SCREAM
TO EASE UP THE PAIN OF THIS DESOLATE DREAM

ON THE RUN IN THE MILL, ONLY SINGLES ELOPE
A CAR LOOKS FOR PARKING AND NEWSPAPERS SHOUT SCOPE
SOME TILLS IN THE MILL STILL OPEN UP THEIR MOUTHS
THEY SWALLOW GREEN LUSCIOUS, THEN EMPTY THEIR BOWELS
ON THE PAVEMENT, LIKE BOTTLES, BUST UNDER FEET
THE STREET MEETS A CIRCLE, TURNS BACK DOWN THE STREET
COMPLETE IN THE WAY THAT IT IS INCOMPLETE
I N C O M P L E T E ……
SUNDAY, THE MORNING, LOOKS OUT WITH BLACK EYES
BLODDSTAINS ON POCKETS ARE CRIMSON LIKE LIES
FLY-SPECKLED CHILDREN LIE DEAD IN THEIR ROOMS
WHILE SWEEPERS TRY TO MENSTRUATE THE BROW, OF THE HILL, WITH THEIR BROOMS.
WITH THEIR BROOMS.


YOU WANT TO:
SPIKE UP THIS TOWN, SUPPRESS THE SCREAM,
EASE UP THE PAIN OF THIS DESOLATE DREAM…..

ETC…. AD NAUSEUM AND SHIT… UNTIL OUTRO RIFFS!


(THE BIT ABOUT THE WRONG MAN, WRONG CAR ……….. DON’T KNOW IF WE NEED IT…. MUSIC MIGHT SUFFICE!! – IT ALWAYS DID BEORE)…… or we can jot a few lines down about s’thing…..?