The subway poems: prodigal son

Prodigal Son

I am your prodigal son,
squandering tears between
coffee stains and rose
blossoms chained to a velvet wall.

I am your prodigal son
spilling my seed on callous tongues
and spending nights crucified
to a sulphur moon, slipping beneath your milk
white breasts
in this gray nicotine room.

I am your prodigal son,
pissing sin on empty durex machines
and squatting my ambition to
recall a memory of my bitter youth
tattooed forever on lampshade skin.

I am your prodigal son, haunting
dens of black-leather Gods and
undressing some pretty young tart
with her Gucci tits and cocaine pussy.

I am your prodigal son, hanging
misery on bare walls with a picture
of her and the cum and get-it smile.

London. 1989