It was a stony eye, constant in its cry from pin-point pupil all awry with dirty, cooked-up, vacant water that it did apply to its stagnated iris. Cordoned in its bliss – from brown grass, thistle, wilting flower in blood and others up to their necks in mud, and that cave with its wild stench of tramps and piss – by naked geometric tarmac, cracked like my throat. But now the place has changed and when I go back I feel dead strange. I suppose I could complain. I could hate the care it’s had just because I ache. Or, again, again, again, I could woefully lament the loss of half-remembered history. Even though it’s so much nicer now than it used to be.
Listen to it as a song!