Going Home

Remember those never ending winters

Turning fitfully in a bed which has grown too large

Flapping like a fish on volcanic beaches

Remembering the sweet juxtaposition

Of foetal sleep

Snatching in the darkness

For a ghostly hand

The scalding neon nights which you sought out

The cloying flickering TV room

Where old wounds were worried to death

By your mother good intentions

The pulpy fiction which gave relief

Your one night out

And solitary trudge

Through fields of ice

Remember when you thought

This winter would see you die

The blimp who sired you

Comatose in his TV chair

It was not my fault

That we totalled three

And I was there

Some murky obligation

Born of some sordid deed

Born of a dire frustration

Is this why, now I bleed

Son of the rut