1



In this run‑down rooming‑house of the soul

the Subterranean has visions of the Gods

of poetry tumbling down no longer

immune the disease destroying waves

of grass even flowers of evil

entombed poets dug up rotting bodies executed

to please the public apocalyptical verses

of the slouching beasts the whimpering

of the world dying Yeats & T.S. Elliot even

come tumbling down apparitions of faces

silent on window‑panes

rats scurry through the streets

sneak into our houses keeping us captive

for days on end chattering their teeth

standing on their hind legs

blocking the only exit

no one hears our screams for help

these rats are secret agents & assassins

of the shadowy Illuminati

in this run‑down rooming house

of the soul‑



A foul stench fills the house

a corpse left to rot

someone dying from too much cheap wine

forgotten no one comes to call

left untouched a week

looking for rent discovered

by the landlord

a dozen people sleep on the stairs

disappear in day‑light

neighbours throw furniture knives

wine & beer bottles at each other in anger

sometimes at the walls just for practice

steal radios as fast as we replace them

strangers sleep in our beds

on nights we stay out

vivisectionists working over‑time trying

to weigh measure quantify the soul

to suit their temperament making light of it

leaving us to live this substandard

second‑rate existence in this run‑down

rooming house of the soul‑



II



The Subterranean lives close to the ground

with the outcasts & the desperate ones

in dark alley‑ways & dead‑end streets

entombed before dying living

in perpetual darkness in dimly‑lit rooms

out of the reach of sunlight

over‑shadowed by Glittering Towers of Glass

having been sent into exile

in his latest incarnation

becoming a refugee bathed in

bleak visions of dreams twisted

ripped apart by wild dogs in this

run‑down rooming house of the soul‑



The Subterranean needing to be close

to the ground smelling the black tar

of the road breathing in exhaust‑fumes

of busy city traffic rumbling by

needing to feel the hard concrete

of the sidewalk under his feet

watching feet of others passing by

the little window of his basement apartment

finding used hypodermic needles of junkies

used condoms of prostitutes

who ply their trade just around the corner

on warm summer evenings & frost‑bitten

dead of the winter nights in this run‑down

rooming house of the soul‑



The Subterranean going for a stroll

late at night mumbling to himself pretending

to be frothing at the mouth mad

passing through gauntlets

of young men who might be thugs

the desperate turning on one another

willing to rip‑off anyone even the Subterranean

of what little he has trapped forced to listen

to the man in the apartment above

in drunken rages beating his wife

all around the house

keeping their six year old son in fear

nightly replaying this old Punch & Judy show

in this forgotten run‑down rooming‑house

of the soul‑



The Subterranean watches the old

child‑molester holding out a helping hand

to naive young boys & girls in need

in return for sexual favours

pays rent to the caretaker

a paranoid painter who adds a series

of white crosses to every canvas

lectures tenants on Christ

returns to his room embattled in heated

arguments shouting at his invisible tormentors

throughout the night hearing the popcorn‑thief

creeping up the stairs & along the hallway

completing his nightly ritual

carrying bags of popcorn

taken from a nearby video‑store

after three am they give it away

believes he's conned them again

hides his booty stock‑piling

for the upcoming apocalypse

in this run‑down rooming‑house of the soul‑



III



The Subterranean daily lines up

with the other outcasts

at the little soup‑kitchen next door

for his & their only meal of the day

on the street the rush‑hour traffic

bumper‑to‑bumper slowed to a crawl

of those passing through

cursing swearing banging their steering‑wheels

fearing their time being wasted

& their time is money returning

to sterile suburbia their eyes focussed

straight ahead rendering these outcasts

invisible having found success

coming from working in their Glittering

Towers of Glass in the City's Centre

which nightly they abandon in this run‑down

rooming‑house of the soul‑



The Subterranean in this run‑down

rooming‑house of the soul over‑shadowed

in the long autumnal shadows

of the tall Glittering Towers of Glass

visions revealed of the mind

a lotus flower blossoming

lifting the burden off the soul

ripping away the razor‑wire coiled

around our hearts left dreaming love

believing in essence we are more

than these bodies we inhabit

being prismatic streams of light

in this run‑down rooming house

of the soul‑



IV



Visions in this run‑down rooming‑house

of the soul revealing numerous

entangled intertwined roots

the more we dig uncovering

veins of gold in the root‑cellar

beneath this run‑down rooming‑house

of the soul‑once you had a plan your

life laid out for you from A to Z

from beginning to end

wondering if it is your life

you are leading Walking crawling

on broken glass & egg shells

in this run‑down rooming‑house

of the soul where nocturnal creatures

give free advice & counseling

unraveling threads of images

bombarding us in ambushes

of a down‑pour of disconnected

images & word‑filled winds rushing

all about us against our faces

stinging us chilling us to the bone

passing through us trapped inside

our muddled chaotic bric‑a‑brac stuffed

jumble‑jar in this run‑down rooming‑house

of lost & forgotten souls‑



How is it that so many claim to find

meaning insisting on purpose in this dreary

run‑down rooming‑house of the soul

where giant leopard slugs

lurk in the shadows performing

secret ancient rituals in the bushes

just outside under our windows

sacrificing dogs & cats

dragged into the shadows

their terror too much for us

in this run‑down rooming‑house

of the soul ‑



V



The Subterranean having visions

of the Valley of slaughter

where human carcasses are tossed

where the Vultures of Heaven feed

where the living envy the dead

where we feed off Wormwood

where we drink the waters of Gall

where our faces have become flames

where flames give birth to faces

in this run‑down rooming‑house

of the soul‑

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