In his house he is god
A god of pain and flaying
In the attic we sit silent and good
The hound he barks
It roams free in him
Bays in the Bowne and the mud
To be a son scolded
Burned by his father
Emboldened by the words of pets
He screams in my house
So in the car I escape
Free of abuse, of hurt and of debts
Brick city’s gutters flow
Where the children play
Among vomit, urine, blood and stale wine
Cruising past neon heat
Or hidden in the blackout
This city and all that live here are mine
