i walk through this strange neighbourhood
a place that only exists when the moon does
i see rough boys and knuckle dusters;
knuckles dusted in glitter and gold
(they've been fighting with their femininity)
but dark eyes detract as
obscene language is spewed like blood
through sharp lips - or open wounds
i know your logic, man:
if you've a broken bottle in one hand
maybe we won't see the rose in your other
all hail the king of the streets
who presides over this strange suburb,
over slick tarmac in the absence of rain,
over shadows in the absence of light
don't forget your father's words to you
after he bit the head from your rose
and made you watch as the petals bled through
the gaps in his crooked teeth
"back in line, don't break the mould.
take this gun if you need something to hold"
but you had your fingers crossed
over the trigger
gunpowder and petals in your wake
you're at war with the ghost of your dad
as mum watches silently through swollen eyes
don't you know she'd love you if she could?
except you have his stormy eyes and
his gun levelled between them
(waiting, waiting, waiting for the courage)
it's a face only a mother couldn't love
but you've got your boys now
they fill that void with fine lines of ivory
and smirnoff -
maybe you don't see it,
that they're trying to drown your garden
and crush your seed before it grows
'cause that's what's been done to them;
it's what they know
can you really blame them?
the strange neighbourhood beckons
it's a graveyard of tender boys, or corpses
clutching a rose in their dead hands
and you see yourself in each of them
understand now,
the tarmac is not slick with rain
but blood
the shadows are not cast by sunlight
but fathers
standing between their sons
and a meadow on fire
your dad's phantom hands are soaked
in gasoline, did he forget that
you've got his gun? and it's loaded with thorns
bang bang bang bang bang
you're extinguished
like his memory, how it haunted you
how it tried to keep you down
then from the ashes a flower begins to bloom,
life emerging in the presence of death,
and with fingertips stained in glitter and gold
you carry it home
leaving only petals in your wake
