History is encased in history and time, ten minutes,
Feels like I’ve been writing forever, modern roads
engraved with ancient culture squeezed out of the chalk
buildings bathed in dark amber run off.
High rise screams Vegas culture in a voice yet to break.
Creaking underbelly, hum of air con deep sharp rumble, grumbling
Second hand music inhaled, crackling dialect highplified ipod drifts
Hiptised made up words flowing, can’t understand.
Such frost in the air. Eagle strip of blue light
Watches the last pub leavers drain their froth tinted glasses
Hugging and gesturing and stumbling like shadows.
Everyone’s holding hands, I’m holding a pen.
A long, black highway floating in space, long and endless
Like the world lined with trees, lamppost lights cut into the sky
Shine white beams through fog and are the only things keeping me sane.
They cast a shadow of the world onto the concrete. I’m still writing,
Crack up some mind killers and take me to deaths explosive climax,
Ripping apart of these little electric clips holding reality together
The light slowly backs away into the night,
Be careful not to chew on the right or my root will explode.
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