The sporadic notions of morality
Encompassing the ridge, he rigs the rig
A ******, an addict, searching the attic
Looking for teeth in boxes
Cooking crack in a crock ***
(Imagine such images, dancing on walls of brick houses crumbling)
The home with boarded up windows, and children watching television sets with the sound on full
This is free form living, an avant-garde way of life
Concrete music from the paving slab, door-stop bedrooms
and the dead dogs rotting in shallow graves in the grey grassy garden
Suspended in animation, needles in the arm
Why is Mummy crying on the kitchen counter top,
and why are you in my room?
This is a house for dealing, a house not fit for stealing
This house is a home to the ones who live and a grave for those that don't
Your house smells of rose petal, sweet summer serenades and  home baked cakes
My house is dilapidated and smeared in ****, my house is lonely, my house is a rut
Infantile impotence, playing on a rainbow welcome mat
Crystal hanging in the window, splaying colour
Tap the vain, vein young valiant boy, pull the tie from Daddy's arm
Between you and me, the back door slides easily open in the spring
and perhaps freedom in the trees you seek
and maybe you can forget
Just for a moment.