There is a hint of madness in your eyes,

sallow, stinking of grievances mislaid;

a Kurt Cobain look but with none of the richness

or depth of consequence, a folly driven by a fool’s errand,

the unravelled strand of deserted rope decaying on the hot,

blistering jetty, no sign of a ship to save this sinking soul.

This madness, the musical abuse in which you crave

has lost its meaning

in your ears and all you hear now is the sound

of a ticking bomb, the explosion driven between the tick and the tock