Fifteen storeys high, the black curtains drawn, and
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the sun is just a brat that spits and the goes away. The
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T.V. chatters, there's a pile of letters scattered on
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the mat. Reminders, bills--they smell of cats. Three
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starving cats who chase each others' shadows. They
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curl up on him overnight and scratch him, and bite
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him . . . But he lost the will to fight, and he lost the
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will to move . . . It's been a month, will be another,
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until the busting down the door. They'll carry him
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away; they'll strip him clean. They'll lock him in a
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padded box some fifteen storeys high
|
where the sun is just a brat that spits then goes away.
|
|
-----------------
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The More It Changes
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| The Legendary Pink Dots |
