Counting Chimneypots

On this bed of cardboard dreams
under Waterloo
where steam trains trickle by above my head
drip fed by the sheen of lights
that float through cracks in cracked out nights
and slower still the will that wills me to survive
is locked behind and under baggy eyes
where sleep to no avail
avails me of no rest.

This zest of bitter lemon juice
splashes
tells me what's the use of going on
but go on I must if only just to spite those gentlemen
with fountain pens who sit at desks on fancy chairs
and never give a thought or care to me
out here in there.

I'll make them look
let me strip off layers of ***** skin and pin it to the pinafores
of petit fours
and let them smell the smell I smell
and eat?
Well
the devil always knows his own and knows who owns the rights
to Waterloo and steam train nights.

I'm breaking out of here
once upon the time when my cluttered mind is clear
and I can see beyond the grime where lines of strategy
will parallel to set me free
the straight
the narrow streets where narrow minded minds are funded
seconded from the corporation
to adjust and tinker with my situation.

I can take or leave them
that other form that gentlemen can take
swamp life
swamped by life
trampled underfoot by feet where the shoes do fit
and do not rub or hurt a bit
and once the touchpaper's lit
there'll be no stopping me
set free
broken out
broken in
watch them gentlemen begin
to worry then.