Edge

I've got to circumnavigate my own Situationist trip through this dirty part of time

Then wander to the outskirts

See what's at the cold Ballard hem of this fucking joint.

The trip's wild man-topsy-turvy-out-of-it-rough-grooved

Deep down to the very back-arse.

The cracks are rippling with monsters

Blood streams through the walls –

Its edgy-bleeding sore this place –

Wheezing sick to the beyonds.

Sinclair knows this.

He's slick sopping wet with the muck scraped out all over him.

Slow-time-waltz-time watch

Noting it down

Padding on

Fucking up the joint