in the yard the torches burn and burn
torches from mitre ten. the cheap beige tubes were turned
out of bamboo. rare tortures hide
behind the eyes of meeting friends
chatting with urgent smiles that cry:
let's never do this again.

you opened your arms like a wide net for a wild bird
and boldly i got lost in the maze of wiring.
i want to forget all i've seen and heard
i don't want to remember anything I've learned.

the same dark scaffold. i was shocked to find it there: my restless limbs and, deep inside, the same dark scaffold.
this week, this week. so low.

the jasmine's out.

last night: york street bar. men on the street: a wanker, a brawl. came and found me in the 7 eleven and I shoulder-sobbed. talked about family. the cold street, noticing cold. handhold taking me back inside.

i say it's not the same but i have to confess there's the same rush in my skin and i almost stop breathing. but it's not the same. is it the same? and will it ever be the same?
it's better to leave you without a name.

the only doubt remaining
is to doubt our own earthly remains
the breathing broken lips open
and the bodies in the rain
there are draining faces racing
to the open gulphing gash
that is the burden of decision
when there's water on the brain
and you laugh at laughter, leaving
all the shit you knew behind
and your canarybird says "fuck the future"
and you say, "no thanks, i'll be fine."

we were strangely immature
it was the only way to be free
immaturely, we were immured
in the things we used to be.

immaturity, immaturity
is the only way to breathe
it's the only way to keep breathing
when your body has ceased to believe.

so shut your mouth and SCREAM
scream THIS IS YOU AND THIS IS ME
shut your mouth and be demure
it's the only way to be free.