It moves slowly, stealthily
not as a point of light
but as an unwholesome bruise
a taint upon darkness
like a series of pale yellow stains
that roll across my unmade sheets;
Somewhere between a frown
and the breaking wind,
amidst the squeaking steel ropes
a steady stream of traffic,
feeding off the city
squirmming in hangover sweats
unkempt, unshaven
straggling past sideways glances
windows rolled down, music up
as if rejoicing it's slow death
swallowing lumps of folded streets
into a vapour trail of pale stars
like the fag end of lit ciggerates
shrinking the shadows into the torn,
disembodied orb of emptiness.
-