Time to make tracks, a credit card or a blade will do.

Rolling up the queen, or a dollar bill to snot through.

To take me to places that I may, or may not have been before.

Levitating 'fish finger trees' and Santa Claus with the head of a boar.

Mixed minds and sirens screaming out munchie’ time.

Choosing package holidays on teletext, which I will never take.

Destroying the tranquillity of white line solitude.

What’s that sound thundering in my ears?

Madonna remixes, produced by Jazzy B.

So, who am I working for, nobody just myself.

I am that lonely fool, high on Lennon’s hill.

Miles away, in my world without any windows.

One cigarette left, and all out of Vodka.

My audience is comatose, time to phone a friend.

The 7/11, Stop 24, any parasitical trader will do.

How long can I be shackled to this ball of addiction

My selected memory sometimes chooses to forget.

Following the cats eyes, my only guide to drive by.

These accidental fuck ups in life, always happen to me.

Here comes another court room, along with bullshit rehabilitation.

Once again, another fossil wonders why, I am frustrated with denial.

But my flesh is not the only one that is dying, by pain and dehydration.

Lack of food, devoured of sex, only self abuse, and stress relief masturbation,

Praying for the touch of an angel, and to be given the chance to start again.

(Photography by Gary Peters)