Willesden - from a cab -
is vein-blue at four-o-two
transfusion complete

Listen, it's a beautiful thing
when distilled to its essence;
reduced to its purest form.
A paradox and a paradigm;
a paragon of perfection.
Epic in its arythmetic
progression; poetic.
Like Chinese arithmetic,
so hard it hurts. Yet soft
and exquisite, like a bubble
of love caught in a beating heart.
That place where poetry starts.

Are you dead now, old man
Or shall you crawl a while longer
In your stains and your stink
Because that is not a life you lead
But something blind and stumbling
Meaningless and mindless
Don't you wish you were dead?

Are you cold now, old man
Within your cardboard-box bed
And your loss and fear?
And now summer and youth are long gone
With your mind and your heart and soul
Leaving nothing but memories
Which you cannot grasp anymore
What were you once, old man?

Was it pain or neglect
Or maybe crumbled dreams?
Did you believe things which were lies?
Well, why not?
So did I
And as the cliche has it,
There but for the grace of so and so
And so on and so forth
But now, farewell my lovely
For I think that you are dead

                                       By Phil Roberts