BELLS

sometimes when 
i've done my best in another town
the moon will be gazing in at me
on the over-lit home train 
like a simpletons vacant eye
an attic mirror of steel stone
and
then
the
house
will be
silent and watching like a mute
at least twice as empty as before i shut the door

but

sometimes 
the moon is a living sliver of gold rush challenge
and 
i hear musics quiet bells and light sparkles like tinsel 
and 
tho i always only write two short lines
they are important and heavy 
like a legend of keys
and 
i'll sit on the kitchen chair
watching cigarette smoke
curl like sea horses 
bursting and combusting on the greasy dust of lampshades
savouring 
the evening abscence 
of 
the damned and unreal 
daily 
doom