Rusty


There are blood stains
painted on the canvas, black
and white photographs from
Dublin where you were out
built by celtic metal.

Sounds of chains and the
decomposition of tin. A
graffiti carpet bombing in
the bathroom.

To this day my phone rings on
a heartless wire and you draw
skulls and crossbones on decapitated stalls
and light poles.

I feel like a Francis Bacon debauchery,
so strayed I would grind at making love and
the dial tone in your art is as faraway as
antarctica.

I draw an X on a my hometown and regret
that I am a rusty panther and you a steel
sick child.