Madman Chronicles

Staggered by the virus burning through the city veins, Stop motion, speeded up, the slam of distant trains, Rattled through the concrete as forgotten people die, Howling jets of power chords go crashing through the sky. The cardboard jungle stretches out along the seamy streets, Where grimy flesh of down and outs use newspapers for sheets And sleep with crazy fetishes that slice and dice the skull, Narcosis bred by pills and soup make all the senses dull. The rail-yard cauldron simmering with cabbages and rats, Skin and fur of vermin bleeding protein in the vats, It tastes of pulped up sewer waste distilled by Mr Hyde, The methylated spirits put some flavour back inside. Leaned up against the siding now corroded through with rust, The corrugated blackened bones of asbestos and dust, Insanity, reality, all sympathy gone up in flames, Lunacy screams at the moon and calls the symptoms names. Down here it doesn’t matter what the poets choose to write, The road to hell is paved with good intentions every night, The only thing that means a damn is death will set us free Of all the madman chronicles of sociology.