A Pederast Speaks of Home

It's a ghetto when the music's moved on.
Steps piled with garbage picked over
by half-starved cats. Snake-eyed
and swift-handed young bloods lean
against railings, play with their knives,
talk loud about the last kill — and the next.

You might expect a sleazy street
where sharp-eyed pretty-boys
prowl under shudders of violent light
and worn young whores wait at the kerb
to hope for a rich one — go with any one.

But no — living here, in this skin,
It's an empty room with one hard chair
— no curtains, no heating, bare floor.