The cars run riot until five in the morning
Debris of chemically fucked humans
On their way home only to awake back into their nightmare of routine
A man is crawling along the pavement
He looks at the drop of a kerb, hesitates
By the fear on his face it must look like the sheer drop to oblivion
But he’s already there and doesn’t realise
He lands the four or five inches and Snow Angels into the road
Waiting for the fall but he’s already fallen
An ever cycling routine to escape routine
Pulling himself across the white line of the road
The next kerb awaits, this time it’s the highest mountain to climb
He succeeds as low as he is physically, mentally
An achievement, he trys to walk but staggers
There is no left or right that he’s aware of
But the reverence of minimal height danger has brought him to his feet
An achievement for him far in excess of clearing his in tray
Collateral damage of the norm.
He’ll wake on Monday and repeat the subroutine of Corporeal
So he can wait to escape again into his most beloved routine
But there’s no escape as his coping methods cycle and become routine
Perhaps only the bliss of being hit by a bus awaits
Or becoming so insane he can’t remember sanity
He’d be a lucky bastard.
