Black Night/ Pink Gin

I have lost these bones/ scattered them in mad patterns
like a lunatic shaman/ out of his mind on iboga,
trying to pull polar-opposite hemispheres
together again.

Saturated in darkness/ 
I follow the trail as it decays to half-life/ 
I’m half-dead anyway, grinding my teeth,
listening out for the ghost voice, calling out
to the mother moon.

Mother, mother, the napalm is burning my skin,
burning up within this dead head/ 
I’m praying to the angels, to take me 
to their feather-strewn, unmade beds.

I dream in echoes/ treading water 
in a quagmire of forgetting/ 
the mist in wispy strips, 
weaving a cloud-shroud round my skull/ 
I trip through dark tunnels. 

Mother is in the garden, yanking up weeds/ 
pissed on pink gin, screaming sour expletives 
at the saviour son/ she stares,
dead-eyed at a dead world... 

...and she tells him, 
it’s his fault that she is dead inside/ she points 
with her dead finger/ stares at him, accuses him, 
condemns him with her dead dead eyes.