Brought up. Kept up.
Awoken by a crescendo of showers,
by students shredding away the early hours,
the parties, the gigs, the drink,
all sink
down the plughole along with the old life.
An old regime. It’s old knife.
It’s parental dictatorship.
Castro. Hussein.
Are nothing compared to
that.
And so they wash.
And I listen. And I think.
And I sink
back to those dazed days.
Where I used to sit and
rot.
And now they are clean and
now I am not.
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