It's that atmosphere, Miles -
Those junky days of squalor in the city,
Staying in furnished rooms, paid for nightly,
Grubbing through teeming streets seeking salvation,
Finding only faces meeting the face you put on to meet them,
Life wasting away in endless October,
The undying torment of existence
Relieved by heroin's poisonous-tender caress,
Oh those months, those years, thrown away!
I see you, Miles -
Collar curled up against the cold,
Face frozen as you contemplate shop-windows,
Their warm light a rebuke, now:
You're too far out.
In a coffee-house waiting for the man
The cold clink of cutlery searing your soul.
If only you could escape all this,
Soar on wings like your music,
Escape this hell of being.
You score, get fixed.
Existence ebbs like tides.
