Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

The tables are covered in graffiti
saying nothing
as the families sit down
to their Sunday roasts.
The beer is cold,
but I am much colder.
There's a funeral on the way
and the streets look dead
as they have since I noticed them.

The world still lacks taste;
the jukeboxes say so
as do the newspapers
and the cinema screens.
Give me symphony music
or jazz,
Bukowski, Celine, Fante
or Dostoevsky.
A rare steak
and some time to myself.
A pen and paper will do,
but the insular thing
isn't working so well
right now.

Last night;
three men decided to make a mockery
or my M and S slippers
that finish off my black suit,
but I kicked a bin, HARD
so they are the only way I can walk.
See how desperate we all are
to lash out at anything.
I don't understand

what they were looking for,
but I didn't give it them.
I've wasted enough time
on this debauched society
and right now...
they're not getting anything from me.

A night in a cell
would finish me off,
and no son
wants to be too much
like their father.