Goodbye old portrait of whom you know
turn aside self paintings of what you sow
weather's worn, the City scraped
last place mourn all such fables raped,
the exits

exist below.

Things ain't what they used to be
ain't no doubt about that; the taxis
and the trains, the blood on the tracks;
it's an epic zoo, these mad-box-marbles
out of our hats,

these three tone-poems crepuscular in blue
and blues, by the birds of Cabala fire,
our railway cats,
in the shapes of all my self-deceptions
desolation's road
who I am I am and I am

existing low.

Dimensions in the moments burned
of karma, my foolish ghost-soul blurred
trinkle, trinkle
A off minor
b# flat
the best damn blues-jazz is green
a rhtyhm-a-ning
even Steve Vai plays "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat"

I saw the ferryman to the dead-land
sailing across tomorrow, yesterday
he said, "I'll lend you my cold white hand"
into the autumn river beneath bone-moon
too soon, today, today, too soon
I kept my pennies for another year
but sooner or later he'll find me there.

"Goodbye old portrait of whom you know
turn aside self paintings of what you sow..."

Goodbye to all the portraits... I thought I'd, tried,
I never realised... I, must've... killed you all...
back into my Paradise, tied & unbound;
haunting the everyday price; wanton & sound.

Another city,
another last-lost train station;
the horizon empty...
only the mad-ravens ever seem to listen.