A poet sits quietly on a burnt-out old tyre,
Under a corrugated beam
And waits.
Waits to be heard and paint the world as he sees,
Waits for the screams to roll down the street
On desperate feet.
Red spots flying from blades of glass,
A bright shot, from a barrel dark,
And a huge scythe with an evil gleam
Under which tendrils are teased from an artery.
A symphony of strokes works its way up the body
And rounds punctuate the clouds of smoke.
A burst here,
A scream there,
A shrill, a stutter,
A chorus of clash, crack, thud, thump.
Colours hurled from black to red,
Some fled and others bled.
A poet sits quietly on a burnt-out old tyre
But cannot begin
To describe this hellfire.