In this attic room, confined and defined
by the chequerboard light from a disinterested moon
I fake my confessions in blue ink
From a pen that has known no mercy
Save the warmth of my hand

Heads roll past in the street resigned
In the guillotine glow from a disinterested moon
Never to rise tread water or sink
But set free by a cold act of mercy
Sketched outlines by my mercenary hand

On the factory floor where hate is redesigned
To fester in the cauldron of a disinterested moon
Checked and signed in octopus ink
Set free by a heart that knows no mercy
Save the touch of my severed hand

So to this attic room I am confined
Limited in thought and deed by the iron in an idiot moon
Under which I was born to think
That the world will offer no mercy
To the director of this ink-stained hand

August 2009

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