Police keep knocking but they can’t get in
this is junk territory, stairwell like a no
budget movie all needles an’ spoons,
a human turd, plaster of porn, lights flicker
on three times a minute an’ my letterbox
like a grim grin swallows, announces
with a thud the arrival of the apocalypse
the debt collectors red alert, it does not deliver
words I pray for. I rip it open with a crowbar
at five am, got the shakes much? I embrace
my stash but the door’s fucked it’s a token
gesture of security, it’s the wrong side of loose.
My sixth floor of madness it’s a tall box
to live in so I dream up, theatre bar across
the street gawks over wine and canapes
for the famed Nicholson St. matinees,
Junky and The Jitter Bug, Schizophrenic
and The Bondage Boy, Wife Beater
and The Bloody Sheets, big fat corpse
in my bath with a big fucking knife
I’ve tried voodoo but the bitch won’t go.
I’m a girl that needs to hit so I beat, beat
beat an old drum-kit set up where a sofa
should be, I play electric guitar in just
stilettos though nobody can see me, smile
like a bullet it’s my secret stun gun, I
walk streets where witches got drowned
poked, pricked and burnt come back to
where safe is four red walls and fifty silk
lilies stick out their tongues. Bed is the only
place, I bolt the door, batter in some nails
but they still send things, a black rose
a celtic ring – no note, a silver dildo, a gun
a skeleton hand, finest Bolivian, his wife’s
a witch as well, he says two plus me makes
three, freedom’s got me absolutely fucking
nowhere but I don’t have a price an’ I will
never read words I wait forever to hear said
what I really wanted was ecstasy but demons
speak through me so I type, type, type, type
for twenty hours a day, type as fire billows
across the ceiling and charrs the walls
black, turns all the me’s of ever to ash.