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!