A Poem for 10 Nicholson Street

Police keep knocking but they can’t get in

this is junk territory, stairwell like a no

budget movie all needles an’ spoons,

a human turd, plaster of porn, lights flicker

on three times a minute an’ my letterbox

like a grim grin swallows, announces

with a thud the arrival of the apocalypse

the debt collectors red alert, it does not deliver

words I pray for. I rip it open with a crowbar

at five am, got the shakes much? I embrace

my stash but the door’s fucked it’s a token

gesture of security, it’s the wrong side of loose.

My sixth floor of madness it’s a tall box

to live in so I dream up, theatre bar across

the street gawks over wine and canapes

for the famed Nicholson St. matinees,

Junky and The Jitter Bug, Schizophrenic

and The Bondage Boy, Wife Beater

and The Bloody Sheets, big fat corpse

in my bath with a big fucking knife

I’ve tried voodoo but the bitch won’t go.

I’m a girl that needs to hit so I beat, beat

beat an old drum-kit set up where a sofa

should be, I play electric guitar in just

stilettos though nobody can see me, smile

like a bullet it’s my secret stun gun, I

walk streets where witches got drowned

poked, pricked and burnt come back to

where safe is four red walls and fifty silk

lilies stick out their tongues. Bed is the only

place, I bolt the door, batter in some nails

but they still send things, a black rose

a celtic ring – no note, a silver dildo, a gun

a skeleton hand, finest Bolivian, his wife’s

a witch as well, he says two plus me makes

three, freedom’s got me absolutely fucking

nowhere but I don’t have a price an’ I will

never read words I wait forever to hear said

what I really wanted was ecstasy but demons

speak through me so I type, type, type, type

for twenty hours a day, type as fire billows

across the ceiling and charrs the walls

black, turns all the me’s of ever to ash.


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