Home...

Where you know what lurks between the paving stones
Where you know what dribbles out the drainpipes
Where you know what rushes through the gutter
Where you know the slime in the brew'ry alleys

Home:
Where you know the graffiti tags on the street signs
Where you know the stickers on the lamp posts
Where you know the lead on the roofs
Where you know the locks on the windows

Home:
Where you know what is in the bin
Where you know what blocks up the public toilets
Where you know the algae on the boat moorings along the river
Where you know the black which clings to the underside of Belisha Beacons

Home:
Where you know the taste of the traffic
Where you know the rotten fruit in the market
Where you know the pigeon-shit daubed wall beneath the iron railway bridge
Where you know the acrid taste of the money

Home:
Where you know the smell of the telephone booths
Where you know what the seats on public transport feel like
Where you know the grease on the hand rails
Where you know what the the bus window tastes like

Home:
Where you know what shoes walked up the steps of the Public Library
Where you know the clip of heels on the marble floor
Where you know the smell of the furniture polish
Where you know what cloth shone the brass door knobs

Home:
Where you know what filth trickles out from doorways
Where you know what words will come from certain mouths
Where you get what the crazy man screams at the bus-stop
Where you know what's on the underside of your shoes

Home:
Where you know the smell of the post office
Where you know the complaints in the Doctor's waiting room
Where the sound of morning TV makes you suicidal
Where you know the blow of the school yard whistle

Home:
Where you know what will be left in the bakers at 4pm
Where you know in what shop milk is a penny cheaper
Where you always walk in the opposite direction to the postman
Where you know how to get what and from who

Home:
Where you know the dust in the air vent
Where you know the dampness on the walls
Where you know the rubbery seal around the kitchen sink
Where you know the larvae in the cupboard

Home:
Where your dead skin twirls in the sun beams
Where your footsteps lead back to old shoes
Where heartache is paid with the rent
Where your genes are the rubble of demolished streets

Home:
Where the Argos catalogue is Bible
Where you buy a bed for a comfortable death
Where you “bagsy” your cemetery plot
Where you write your own epitaph

Home:
Where you know the sounds in the roof
And the screams in the night
Where the tears you can let cry
Where love and hope was lost
Where you learn how to die

There,
that's your home.