The city sleeps disturbed
in boots filled with lead,
a dimension of beauty
mobilised within my head.

And on this endless parade –
Sunset Park to Rose Hill,
gas stations as churches –
holy fuel forever spilled.

You make me lose my head
and dream of what might be,
you sculpt and tumble me
as the rain transcends.
Tease the tension out,
flip the script around –
autodidact,
teach me one thing.

There’s nothing more I can do
than dream of what might be,
praise be to the gods of the east
that bow down in front of me.

And on this endless parade –
Sunset Park to Rose Hill,
gas stations as churches –
holy fuel forever spilled.