home .

there is no wind to knock the leaves off pale streets

no brisk air, no ocean no bridge.

i live in a mecca, the  most plastic place in the universe

i smell the outside air for the first time today

in the mellow afternoon where the hot is fading away

my life, my cottage and the monotony of art like clockwork

my friends, my nerdy fight club, with our tea

our talk of business and cigarette smoke

our lounge, our club, our familiar faces

of alchohal and sweat

i say its home. its where i live.

im afraid that home, my orange house

my saturday morning cartoons and ethiopian food

shopping on telegraph, dim sum with poa poa

home. it looks and smells and feels like home

has turned into a time capsule, 6 hours away