Strewn together like rough caskets for an unexpected slaughter. Tumbled down piles of lost marks on torn down walls. “I used to be this high”. Marked paths can often be lost to wind and rain. But my mind is intact, housed in it’s shell, living hell. Oh well, I scream loudly, melting. Living hell is the best revenge. Good drunk, bad drunk. And days of no plan revealed plain. I will be the offer rid or ridden, the home base, the scourge of the microphone morphine drip. No dope kicker. Shabby the habit that douses the flames. The burning down house will become a friend to the lost souls with no way home. And for every broken neck a double check. Steep stairs and magic marks to the sky as the life that is lived is revealed.