A short detour one might suggest,
the poor and sorrowful know best.
It’s always raining there,
endless lifeless pale grey days.
There is no sun to shine upon
the body shape that’s penciled on
the sidewalk where one fell.
Where endless are the pointless days,
live all time’s slave in great malaise,
with a blank stare on their face,
and waiting for the sun.
One minus one,
and then they’re done.
the figures fall like figs and plums,
on Desolation Drive.
All of those alone in pain,
call it that unfriendly name,
the Desolation Drive.
There long gone drones blow out their minds
queens live alone in broken hives.
Abandoned houses, empty lots,
cracking sidewalks, needles shot,
a place the word spelled hope forgot.
Yawning houses, knob-less doors,
empty crawling corridors,
hallways lead to dark rooms more,
unmade beds and tattered sheets,
crumpled paper roaches eat.
Empty plates and vials around.
An empty fridge, nothing inside,
turned yellow like the Queen Bee’s hive
where she mourns alone.
on a black board through a cello,
handprints in the dust.
Crayon paintings, postcards,
yesterdays now needed gone away.
Forgotten in the cigarette haze.
Silent empty corridors
identical catacomb rooms
Dirty towels on the floor
used jeans fraying used no more
a dropper in one pocket
love letter in the other
a burnt bottom rusted spoon
they fit so well together.
Clotted blood in droppers turn,
spread rose shapes in the grey.
No time and nothing left to do
like all the other days.
Hope is down.
The chips are low.
Looking for an exit-
and there is nowhere to go.
No way to call.
“No refills,” says it all.
Empty bottles, no medicine now–
the Letter is unread;
in empty clothes where once was froze
another of the dead.
Spent and yellow cigarette butts
human stumps fall in the tray.
Broken clocks and broken robots,
the ones who love and break a lot,
they sing those sad old lines:
“Wrong place, wrong time,”
their lonely little nursery rhyme.
There is no fix for them.
There is no fix for those who lie
alone and look up at the sky
numb and dumb the day is done
and for them there is no why-
to get the fix that they need now
their only little fix to be
A normal person, to love, to hold,
like they do on other roads,
by desolation drive.
Where happy people live and smile
their dreams fulfilled the Miracle Mile.
Another day, the same old song,
chocolate wrappers on the lawn,
burnt up spoons and bodies gone.
Coffee cups long drained have cast
a stagnant halo on the glass.
Another day to waste away
puppets for the monkey play
Their tragedies and pass.
when Hope is gone.
The Chips are thrown,
across dirty tables slow.
They load the gun,
the barrel, spun,
gunshot silhouette shadow show.
No song, no mass,
no life, no past,
one lullaby they go.