Chris Three

Windows paint strokes, against the falling rain, shocked again I'm broke, echoes of an empty surfeit, another sad holiday, it’s no news to me, at St Anthony’s stone, loss brings no certainty, when you need a loan, songs of a dismal choice, pose lonely sad trains, that whistle and moan, to beg again, with love gone on plates, or down the Freeway, it marks my bones, shadows of the infirmary, circle my zones, I'm a generous soul, reclaimed from this cafe', and like to joke, when I get paid.