Voluntary

Motions race, only colours,
in the night.
Romance lies somewhere vacant in the wasteland of my mind
and I ponder, with half a memory,
on the back alley by the bank
whether someone could just trot,
brandish a blade
and make it simple. Quick. Merciless. Bloody. Interesting.
Not that I'm suicidal,
of course,
merely well acquainted with the easy
option.
I am sure to have a hangover
when morn' shines bright
but for now I'm quite contented
sitting still, half-cut and weary.
It was simple, one day I can't remember,
where as now the rules have changed
no longer mere folly but a lifestyle for me
with books and
cars and hair cut
after hair cut
after haircut,
no one ever stops the split ends
or ties the loose ends.
The melancholy causes crime,
a boy beaten by his father,
like a film, I watch the top window of a house
that looks no different to any other on the street.
It serves a purpose,
I wank from the corner
never diverting eyes
from paternal violence
just to stumble home to another
empty night.