I feel at home in Brighton where
The tat-too girls go hand in hand.
Bums shout at pigeons and they stare
At rocks they know that should be sand.

A junkie-hold at every corner,
The rest all looks a bit crusty.
’Most everyone’s a foreigner,
Or else they seem to want to be.

Where we all bleed flowers, petals,
Stab wounds splatter hope for some.
A stolen credit card settles
Your sins and life and death and fun.

It’s safer here than anywhere
I’ve ever known I want to be.
Hemorrhaging, intensive care,
Hung out to dry, soul by the sea.

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