Look up, the clock ticks in response . . .
And my paper only half full . . .
At least I'm positive about something . . .
Tick Tock.

Rest my head on my piece,
Low music playing on the radio . . .
Don't wanna wake the neighbors . . .

I'll rest my eyes . . .
Just a little bit . . .

I throw myself against the bed, praying that the two church pews hold the mattress. Digging myself into the sheets as a refuge to my sins, drunk and on a whim I tossed the last lighter out the window. I have now begun to scribble vigorously on a notepad, papers piling up as high as the coffee cups near my makeshift bed. These ides don’t work, stories thrown out faster then they are jotted down.

My knuckles hurt, or at least my brain is telling me they hurt, perhaps the pain is as fictional as the girl staring through the window at me. The circus had been in town for two weeks, playing in the corner of my room as the clock ticks past four. Four ‘o clock the circus dies, wilt away into the wall, perhaps they will come back again tomorrow.

The moon was in the street and I couldn’t remember the last time I slept. A thousand pigeons rattled from the rooftops, breaking air as two thousand wings flapped out of time and into the air. I sat back down on the café corner and saw Satan in my coffee and God in the cold white china of the cup. The image said to me, ‘it’s all going to be fine, the king abides man’. If God and Satan could get on alright in a coffee cup, well that gave me a little hope. I balanced a cigarette on the side of the ashtray and watched the street cobbles shake as late night wakers and wanderers made their way up the street.

Whose mind is the quicker;
Who shall be the first to fall,
Or shall either fall at all?
I say that with dimming eyes, after all.

I stand still.
Hand me my demise-
On a silver platter.
I glance at you, I see you fall.
Dead.
I could be God.
Then I turn-
A graceful mirror . . .
If looks could kill-
I wake up.
Purgatory never gave such a sweet dream . . .