The money dries up coming in the door.
The bills it pays at nibble on our hands
and stop them playing music anymore.
The angel dust that gathers in the sands
outside our door brings strength I can’t resist.
My strength is like an angel’s or ten men
each time I hit on uppers. Don’t insist
that there’s nothing left of courage in that tin
I bought at midnight walking in the park.
The stalking time that tourists fear with cause
is all I have. Behind my eyes it’s dark
although my pupils flame like Santa Claus
on steroids whipping on his wayward elves.
Our money’s gone. We are feeding on ourselves.
Date this sonnet written unknown. Revised 05/06/2006, 03/02/2016 (and changed themes from ‘Psychosophy’ (because it’s not at all about me) and from ‘Mortal Health’, to ‘Drink and Drugs’ and ‘Crime’), 06/09/2016