Down a grimy back alley, where junkies pissed & drank,
stood a young black crow, cawing in the wind.
It knew of nothing, but the sweat of fear & and the blood of violence,
As men, filled with cheap pomp and bravado,
stood each other with fists tensed,
Picking the fight, for the sufferings of life wracked their bodies tight.
It was clear.
This wasn’t personal.
This was therapy.
An outlet for every boss who doubletalked them
in unpaid work.
And they ate it — and oh how they ate it
The kind of anger that will resurface itself
down the line, and kill them as the crow flies
cawwing over their grave.
Where will the crow be, when it’s my time?
Will it fly over the cemetery when I’m laid,
or caw madly at the drunks in the alley.
Either way. It’s a strong bet,
and I’m lucky. Just lucky enough, to have a wallet full of notes,
where I can buy my own bottle of Johnny,
and join the backstreet parade,
where we fight each other, because it’s the only sane thing to do,
whilst high society stroll through the streets,
only shooting, their dark glimpses of mortgages & security at us.
Well we could have had it too, you know?
We were on our way to work, yet we lost it somewhere.
We lost way before the back alley.
And that’s why we come to find ourselves here.
I don’t think I can ever forgive the many demons
that ran amok on my young heart,
But I can forgive myself.
That’s good enough to start fresh,
and try again.
I’ll find a city. I’ll find my way. I’ll find out what is happiness,
what is contentment, how to make new friends, how to fit in with a scene, how to make my mark, how to develop my voice, hone my craft, redevelop my repertoire, cast my line out. I will do all that and more,
even if I have to run half way across the world,
like a petulant child,
just to find out what exactly is the cost, to journey into my manhood.
If I have to eat crow, then so be it.
I will do that.
I’d rather face the mirror and see myself for what I am,
then lose all hope and semblance of
building a healthy life together.
I’ll crawl through the gutters, and counting all the nickles & riches within them,
if I can save up enough money to buy a canvas,
and paint my struggles in the gutters, counting all the nickles & riches within them.
I am not above that. I am not above that. I am not above that.
and if I ever am,
I’ll start cawwing in that back alley myself.