At the edge
The blackest of shadows follows me now,
some days the bottle isn't enough.
Sleep no longer free’s me,
it doesn't come in any measure.
Maybe life was blown from me,
when I inhaled the talons of hell, clawing me.
Maybe that last time was one too many
and all this anger comes from that.
All the fucks and all the fists,
all the pretence at domestic bliss.
I want to be gone, but not like this.
This fuse will not just peter out.
My lungs are full of six dead men
who breathed murder into me,
they lost their battle
still, killing me posthumously.
The hotel is nice
I can see the Sea,
a fine grey rain embraces me.
England loves her children,
its a beautiful place,
at its edge.