This is just a phase, for straight middle-aged white men
former street punks and junkies, boot boys with
Doctor Martens and leaden looks
a house divided is the only kind I’ve ever known
This is just a phrase, in a longer sentence
a paragraph of obtuse and tortured grammar
the language put on the rack, persecuted
with composed precision
there are neither victims nor butchers here
and this house divided in peerless disunity
This is just the opening verse, of a lingering song
no top forty hit, nor underground favourite
dissonant and jarring, all minor seconds and major sevenths
and the house divided on atonal echoes
This is the thousand-yard stare, for broken hearts
under the gaze of the clandestine sniper
with the high calibre ammunition straight between the eyes
and this house divided provides no reprieve
This is a not a great work of art, all colour in
light-painted words and earless divinity
just mud and blood and crashed-out palettes
and this house divided by stroke-shafted stars
This is just a forever phase, for self-loathing whispers and wounded gaze
dejected lips and doleful tongue
and this house cannot stand

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