Oak and Oxygen

Angel,

Angel,

Black and white angel,

Roof top monolith,

I glow when I sleep,

A normal shooting on a normal street.

 

Terror in Beemer,

Woodchip and splinter,

The risk of the tight time,

Pizza maker.

 

This is the Volvo express,

This the middle-aged metempsychosis,

Of a pristine teen achiever,

Two up, two down believer,

Wise with a future determined by trends,

I follow in the footsteps of my Father,

Motorway markings and the smell of steel swings.

 

I am a teen wolf,

Amidst a pyramid of structure,

I see no grids or lines,

No animals nor education,

Just psychotics roaming the streets,

F*g-ash attitudes,

Rain mack skin.

 

What exactly are you looking at?

My heart in vision,

No jokes with stained throats,

Gravel man,

Glue man,

Slowly dissolving the past,

Into a fraction of the present,

When the bulb winks out,

And Mephistopholes crumbles,

But give me that any day,

Over cricket, crap and comaraderie.

 

For me;

Grey capture,

Church and chimney in my brain,

With no children of my own,

I take to telly and Toblerone.

 

On the other side of the curtain,

The BBC sits patiently,

To collect my blood in small green vials,

Radio transmitters like wires in my veins,

Like horns on my head,

A life of quiet patience,

These white corners,

And low ceilings,

This evil bean that crawls inside of me,

Too much oak and oxygen.