I want to cry for the little boy in the top hat and black jacket.
He's a spill on the loose,
slipping all over himself, giving all of himself
to the fields of Ginger and Baby's Breath and
half-time breaks that won't even look at him.
And he realizes he doesn't mind because he's so doped up,
he has no eyes.
He's driving nowhere, where the real rockers are.
Fresh coke in his hand and his nipples are
He doesn't move when his nose starts to bleed on the head of the guy
below him, who happens to be sucking
away the last three years of his mother smiling and
him being real cool.
"Hey, Mom, you're a bitch." He's on the street corner,
the corner of your eyes.
Bang, bang, bang on the gates of hell.
Let him in! But son, you're already here.
And he screams "Oh, God!" even though he doesn't mean it,
even though he isn't listening to himself, either.
Lost cause; isle of gold
he refuses to just go back home.
He will recover, sprout again.
And this time the seeds won't rot and the smell won't pinch the hairs in your nose.
Good kid. Good stuff.
Who knew of such talent and purpose for life?
And he goes up there to better himself,
to be worth something (more?) than a few hours.
I watch him give his soul up to Rehab for the Lonely
and he lets the good world throw the colors away.
He is doing it, he is making it and
I want to cry for him, for the boy in the top hat and black jacket.