Lonesome trudging through fields of shit.

Life toil, slow waltz, drink by drink, cigarette by cigarette,
pounding the soil and wearing through the shoes.
The pavement slats and rough-laid tarmac know the rhythm
of weary soles and a tired, sprite of a soul.

The scraggly beard and overpowering odour of a man
chained to a lamp post, clutching ‘The Big Issue,’
and he begs and pleads, and stares solemn and lost,
but I can’t afford his rag, despite my nice watch and leather wallet.

Another weekend oblivious to the strife of a world so torrid,
wretched and bruised,
the flakes of skin,
litter the floor,
where content feet once waltzed away.

You’ve gone and I’m lost.
You’re lost and I’m gone.
The gentle meander of a heavy, bruised heart.
Pounding,
stretching,
‘til atrium tissue fissures and bleeds.

Now I cough gentle scarlet blood,
into a handkerchief bearing an insignia;
‘A P Lawrence,’
The ‘kerchief of my father,
destined for the pile,
landfill,
a blot.

The beard wriggles with lice,
the ‘Issues’ crust with piss,
the fingers blacken
and the lungs rot
with smoke and ash and the onion cider potions.

He, like me, just wants to die.
My father did not.
But I am selfish.
And will.
‘til then the succour of licqour,
drink by drink,
cigarette by cigarette.