Spiralling down, brown drugs for his frown,
Few pounds found, sound. Another bag on the ground,
wound round his small town reality, no morality,
come down mentality, brown calluses, cavities,
Apparently, see him down town begging charity,
crown seeping clarity, deep seeped in tradegy.

Collecting change, thin frame and hair matted,
ragged clothes, nose dripping like it mattered.
Cold shaking, hunched waiting outside the train station,
losing patience, faking for the sake of the money he's taking.
Blatantly breaking, mistakes her for a passing person,
vast passive curtain hiding passed passions burning.

Walks home alone, brown shoes tapping on the paving stones,
brittle bones, little known about the cancer growing.
Broken gate, and litter litters his garden,
in a stuck stagnant state with dead dreams of stardom,
partly starving, knocks twice. Calls for Martin,
not alarming that Martins not far from departing.
Martin opens the door, not surprised what he saw,
Martin mirrors his raw sores and crack grandeur.

Floor covered in snacks, empty wrappers and that,
every surface immersed in these packets of crap.
Follows Martins tartan through a small stream of carpet,
litters on its margin then the fucker flows right passed it.
Owns a plastic casket, plaster crumbs on the corridor,
caught between foot and floor, walking to his rotten door.
Slumps on his mattress, slumps on sodden boards,
beating core clinging to the tinted time before.
He claws her perfect picture from his jaded jacket,
force of habit, her ink bleeding, edges tattered.
Brown battered crack pike manages to pack it,
raging addict, thin hands rattling erratic.

Lust bursts, turns to dust to rust,
paint peels, sealing his faint feelings;
warm smiles, red heels. Huge hit (smack),
impact cripples like the car crash,
the crack acts, dying fast, huddled by trash stacks.
Trapped tripping, curled up on the edge of living.
Happy grinning, because she's still there lying with him.

Body rotting in a puddle of forgotten melancholy,
fuck the worry, fuck the sorry, fuck this bleeding hollow story,
red to brown, and brown ground now holds this clown,
red to brown, colours mix...and trickle down.