Introduction: His head is full of troubled thoughts But he and I have no fears We went into so many ports That we never shed our tears We lived together for six months Sharing an unmade bed And never once did he reveal The demons in his head. Twenty-four weeks of filthy sheets And blood-stained winter coats Twenty-four weeks of dirt and leaks And uncrossable strategic moats For those long weeks the walls were bare Our inner lives too deep to share We had no responsibilities to bear. For that short time, we lived in sin Before our senses kicked back in. Charles: I met him on a street, I guess. Or in the launderette. Or down the pub. Doesn?t matter. Not a hard scene to know, we meet, Introduced by someone that we both Almost know. I want to say to him ?I take ordinary words to make verse? Because he demands such confessions. I could not say why. I want to tell Him everything. But do not know Anything about him. Feel that He must be unhappy; or he would Have better things to do than Visit my house (which he does the next day). He says little, We watch some TV, I play some Of my favourite albums. He probably does not like them. But image is Important to me. My curtains are Grey. I realise this for the first time, Afterwards. It does not bother me, But I think about dyeing them. The radio still playing badly Played metal from California. Dull euro disco, I do not know What station. I no longer panic. There must be an emotion in its place. I pray to God it is not love. Eddie: We met on the street, fleeing from rain ? Bad introductions from friends. Walking along, down Primrose Lane Turning of course at the bends. We talked some more, he told me that His poetry really was bad He confessed all, and I told him that I found it all rather sad. Next day I went, round to his house Grey curtains and four poster bed He played me music so I was aroused: ?Yes? was not all that he said: We lay on the floor, writhing around Fucking each other like dogs Then we slept, but not very sound Beneath a duvet of only nine togs. Panic re-enters, innocent eyes Turning toward my own flesh All my own choice, don?t wear a tie Razor and skin start to mesh. We met on the street, drowning in rain He took me back to his house We bled on the carpets to hide our pain Feelings we needed to douse. Panic returns, yellowing hands Receding into the view Venture yet forward, promising lands Always at somewhere still new Soon after that day, I went round again, Back there again to his house. We bled on carpets to hide our pain, Feelings we needed to douse. Charles: It was the second visit. Second time That he entered my house. Carried a razor Blade around in his pocket. Old fashioned cut throat. Wooden handle. Opened it up. Showed me. What the fuck for? He took off his trousers. Scars on his legs; too many. Brought the blade Too close to the skin. Don?t, I whispered. A stricture, an ineffective order. He ignored me. He cut. Not on my fucking carpet, please. Hard stain to get out is blood. Why does he Have to do it in front of me. Does he have No equally fucked up friends? What am I doing with this man? Eddie: We lived together for six months Eating and sleeping and fucking We lived alone in a single room Where the lighbulbs never were working Then panic returns, all that he sees Are the dubious stains on the bed Panic returns, I never did tell Of the demons that live in my head.