The Butcher Walks At Dusk

There's something about him that drips
His charm warns, too neat like false teeth
yet dirty as a dead coal-mining rat slicing his own path
through the riff raff with his halfteeth
can't quite see the cracks where
his soul was glued back together
There's tomething in his eye that
beacons, beckoning like a bug zapper
There's something in the shadow beneath
his hat and beneath each
eye in which he hides all the
ancient baggage and wet pillows
a broken pillar of the broken community
hazy wraiths, fetid relics of the past slaps and collapses
inflicted upon himself
There's something in his upright
way of wandering
his crooked way of wondering
subdued effort to conceal the
limp and the urge to
fall over and never move again ever
is betrayed by his hard shining eyes
filled with determinism
and fateful longing
every step and every glance
a slow soft
lunge at something
unseen and ever out
of reach

Get off your everloving arse
Shut your omnipresent gob
That was his motto (when he had a job,
and a cat, and a place to be at, not to call home, or his own, but to hang his hat
and his head and his noose,
and a floor to call a bed,
now he's got the street instead,
No time to be on
(on time)
(off time)
Down time
Over head
Up in arms
Head to head
Toe to toe
Tagged and bagged
bit by bit
tick by tick
the wick thins and dwindles
he joins the minions
beyond the wall of sleep
he's made peace with his demons
now they shoot craps together as the creep lets the leftover
memories deep in the catacombs of his
blind mind weep and die
like a child orphaned and alone, like a man,
who has never been known, scarcely seen,

He drives an old hearse
Used to live in an old church
with the rats and the termites
now he lays hes head at the
back where the foot of the
casketted corpse would be
for th elong sleep
wherever he's at
just stops wherever he's at
lies downb
who knows where he'll be
who knows if he'll be
who knows if he'll
and where
He's got no place to go
He's got no place to
Be at least he'll never be late

Not yet invisible, the
villiage villain diminishes,
but is not yet vanquished
He languishes in the alley vanguard,
guarding his trove of sour sorrows,
of trodden tomorrows,
of slow and hollow horrors
foreshortened by the street light, his shadow seems
to foreshadow the
sideshow to the apocalypse
like a hyroglyph shit smeared mimicking him on the wall,
syntax crumbling
into a pool of puzzle
muddled on the asphalt
"It's no one's fault," he murmers,
and passes on
to the next