Howling Toms from Icing's Lust by ills Winter

Corrugated iron castle wrapped in fiberboard paper,
squeezed into a back garage. Moths sleep on the door.
Two small windows, clothes' shadows
from the washing line, full of
board shorts, old tees, summer dresses,
Yellow-plastic blue-roped swing, creaking still at 3am. Champagne breakfast, strangers' huddle,
oblivious to any trouble.
Lying in this hotel bed,
watching a white box bake bread. Sleeping pills and declined dockets, visits from the howling Toms.
Homesick for the windy city.
Golden cherub babies play with my ornaments from Spain, brightening up this lonely day, mother saying go away.
Sewing cold nurse, pockets tight, hoping that I've got it right. Maybe then I'll see her smile, open corks from old red wine.
Car is now a pile of crushed tin, she will never work again.
I don't mind, I'm still alive, waiting tables through the night.

• Electronic
• Witchrock
• downbeat
• folktronica
• grungegaze
• trip hop
• New Zealand