The black-walled flat – as damp as dark –
Where smoke and carpet merged and flowed,
And promise drained, and talent flayed
Its beauty with a knife of song.
And through the liquid of my eyes
I sensed the air begin its ebb,
It sucked another day to death:
A Hammond swirled, a poet curled.
The concrete stairwell, soaked in gold,
Was echoing a dusk or dawn,
As rain began corralling drains,
And woke that sleeper from its pains.
Out there a dog lay writhed in bones:
In dereliction, howled alone.
Remembering hearing LA Woman by The Doors in a squat in Blackburn, Lancashire, 1987.