The Whole Town is Made of Death; a poem

Its four in the morning, and the whole town is made of death
Nobody rides the street in cars
Except for cops working the graveyard shift
Just looking out for that one dead ringer
I ride the street on my vehicle of choice
My shiny new Razor Scooter
Such a smooth ride, a smooth glide
Smoother than satin falling through the air
Both move too much like a ghost, gliding gently
Never really touching
More like existing
And I glide over the ground, the ghost in this town
Its four in the morning, and this whole town  is made of death
Shops and houses shut up and uninviting
Empty windows might aswell be black brick walls
The streetlights cast an inch of makeup on the houses, those corpses
Just like the corpses in pine boxes, no matter how well done up you are
You can see it in the eyes, you can see the lights ain’t on
Nobodys home and nobody’s coming out, not while you’re around
I’m here to pay my respects to this funeral home, I’m not here to shop
Not at four in the morning, when the whole town is made of death.
These roads are rickety, bumpy as all hell
But that’s ok, according to my salesman
My salesman explained that my Razor Scooter is brand new
Wheels so big, they’ll have me saying ‘What Bumps?’
Big wheels like novicane, I’ll never feel a thing
Trouble with novicane, you still hear it all
Every bump takes on a place in some ungodly rythym
Badup. Badup. Badup. Badup.
Like a dentist with a sledgehammer, with all that novicane
I never feel a thing
Untill my pants get caught in the fancy new spring loaded breaks
The back wheel jams and I go flying, catapulted by the one moving wheel in front
The novicane wears off when I land palms first, knees next
Land right on those rickety bumps, how humiliating
Good thing its four in the morning, and the whole town is made of death
Everyone is dead now, or might aswell be
Everybody has slipped into a coma
Some are haucinating pretty hard
Good thing the doctor says that an 8 hour coma is normal
I wish I could slip off like that, into my coma
I wish I wasn’t sprawled on the ground in the middle of a bridge
So close to the edge of town
To the last building alive and so close to feeding my insomnia
No coma for me please, I have my Red Bull fix
But without my coma, without my halucinations, what have I got?
I’ve got nothing, nothing but a fistfull of words and a head full of paper
Nothing but the cops who drew the short straw and wound up watching
Nothing but  untouchable smoothness, tantazlizing like a condom for a Ken Doll
Nothing but the comas patients in the corpse skulls
Nothing but four in the morning, when the whole town is made of death.