a night too quiet

yet, even in it’s silence,

not quite enough for me

now in my head those words were read

by Richard Burton

but then she came calling in the hours

when there aren’t yet enough digits on the clock

and I ignored the advice of William S Burroughs, or some other I forget,

and told her to fuck off, leave me to the monotone

test card transmission, the all night howl to a lost

technician, no signs of the girl or clown though thank god

 

yes I should be cradling my head in a billow of coffee

steam, or at least the shit scraped off the factory

floor that passes as bean,

writing the posterity of a present day poverty

but the night is too quiet yet not quite enough

and now this becomes an emergency,

so I call the police to come and read me

a story but all they read are my rights

and I am left little choice where,

despite the money, the means to survive,

I drive to the sea and catch the eastern rise

and breakfast on bacon, brew and used Embassy