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I arrest in the road and think this is the town
Where the tumbleweed girls bowl around and around,
I freeze in the park and think this is the town
Where the seeds of sweet love die cold in the ground.
I lean on the bridge and think this is the place
Where the eyes of dead fish stare up into space,
I lie in the church and think this is the place,
Where evangelist devils preach sin and disgrace.

I trip in the road and think this is the street
Where the black heart of Judas continues to beat,
I step on the cracks and think this is the street
Where the march of the butchers cut life in retreat,
I bow in the street and think this is the road
Where messiahs and villains on wild horses rode,
I cry in the street and think this is the road
Home to the homeless of no fixed abode.

I climb on the rail and think this is the town
Where the plasterboard ceilings came tumbling down,
I halt at each stoop and think this is the town
Where the lost were last seen and will never be found,
I stare at the ditch and think this is the hole
With depth deep enough to eat every last soul,
I weep in the glass and think this is the hole
Wherein nights never end, filled with sulphur and coal.

I stalk down the hill and think this is the city
Where never was mercy and never was pity,
I glance at the graves and think this is the city
The realm of a cut and paste lynch-mob committee,
I bullet the gun for whatever befalls
As jukeboxes blast in the rooms with no walls,
It’s the law of the gun for whatever befalls,
To kill all that draws breath, or walks or crawls.

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