honey and cigarettes.
a room with a pew
for all who dare to pray.
there is life somewhere
somewhere among the ashes
where the antelope\'s distemper
trade silence for a slice of clotted cream.
four mothers lost already.
a choir of undertakers
shit a belly-full of laughs.
it is cold. cold. cold.
we are here among the berries
now our world stands fast asleep.
one inch above the water.
old men in blue pyjamas
counting fingers stained with nicotine
and glue.
it is 2am; it is always 2am.
what cannot end, cannot begin.
what truth is this
that crouches down for one last fatal kiss?
two flowers spring one embryo.
a journey\'s scent of scant reward
now the children are allowed to come and play.
forgive all who have sinned.
there is a newer god, somewhere
somewhere between the ceiling and the sky.
there is fury in our shoes,
but still we sit
more patient than the chickens and the cows
who graze our chins
and suckle blood from the mouths of apricots.
take our eyes, for we cannot see.
we are all but bread and water
with a napkin on our knees.
let us see your ten red roses
so that we may see those roses in your heart.
it is 2am. it is always 2am!
yet still we trade our secrets
for a slice of clotted cream;