Dirt coats his hands like a glove
Wasting away loveless, clothes dangle
Once tight fitting, ample
Took the first hit as a free sample
Then slowly became a vampire freak
No sunlight seen, only lampposts
In between the compost coloured night.
Unseen I can deceive myself into believing
I’m not me
I’m looking through windows
Warm orange light in paperback rectangles
Upon my torn, ragged, mangled, bedraggled, auld jacket waxy mac
Imagining I’m you, warm watching telly
Food in your belly, no sense of warning
No consorting with bad sorts
Or consideration of those unfortunate
It was a mistake coming to Stillorgan
Sleeping beyond the closed Orchard
They’ve all got fortunes
They all know William Orpen
And love when Crokes score
But won’t part with a single florin
I tried to make the begging sign more florid
I didn’t get a single dollar dropped in
I wasn’t over bothered
It felt good not being followed
Around here fewer rozzers
Fewer dangerous tossers
Robbing phones to afford fresh rocks.
Alchemisland 
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