Sitting in a lonely corridor,
the boy eats a little, waiting for more.
True, the window's shadow moves all right,
but he just can't figure a reason
to let the sun tear through the light.
The spiderwebs are of course there,
as in every sad poem,
Blossoming through an air
which barely kisses the skin
They were his trees of forgiveness
and the trophies he wished to win.

Fitted for beggars,
and thus no place for a king,
the boy now longed for fresher air
as he so needed to sing.
His voice was shy and awkward
but boy did it ring true,
he never though another soul
would live to hear it too.

A dark painting had appeared, some
months back, on a wall he used
to scream silently at,
That was before the boy could sing,
and so he hung the Painting high
he brushed it's ***** corners
till the Painting revealed it's dye.  
There was finally something to do.
Something to stand up for
and exist every single day, late like early
just as long as sunshine made it's way

Every day
having got to know the picture more
the boy had reached a conclusion;
he was to be lonely no more.

It was a she, she was alive
and spoke two languages and a half.
They could talk through the air only
but he never minded that,
He just liked the way she cracked a joke
and how she always answered back.
And so they felt almost every day
the weight of each other's delicious misery
Both paintings to one another,
it never was boring to him

Then came a longer night than usual
one where the cellphone could give no light.
The Painting became dark again
and the cobwebs were back in sight.
The boy stared at the wall:
Thinking Any minute now?
And it all crumbled, as it always did
when the night was lord of the country
and the purple hills were hid.
He stared through the window,
he peered up every hole,
he broke down every dark spot
he deemed responsible.
In all of this dumb fury he only hurt himself,
questioning his duty, it hurl where he ounce felt.
Back to the the cellar boy !
Into the ***** you go.

Then as he hoped the Painting just lit up.
Yet it was no longer hanging
She was standing up.

The princess spits on the king,
Lying and ******* as much as she sings.
Her daft sticky package sliding 'cross  
walls of cold expensive rocks;  
She's that goat's toungue on a saltstick,
she's the rain on Ayer's rock.

White and pretty, tall and lonely
Aryan treasure fills her pleasure form:
one light life, of cruel dominance only
slipping between crack and follies
of ***-bound human bodies.

For now we are slime faces,
hidden chef d'œuvres of the waiting.
Today sewer crud, tomorrow
flagships of tall institutions.
Right now, the cold bitter lonely nights
safe of any example, safe of any fright.
Tomorrow the fables maybe;
plastic posters selling out,
while rabies spead and hunger shouts
from yet smaller mouths.