he was a fine French man
there was sugar in his eyes
and lemon on his breath
he touched his lip when he knew he was being lied to
walked in the gutter to avoid busy pedestrians
and valued metal heads as humans with potential
their t-shirts emblazoned in unreadable logos
that resembled withered trees, or criss crossed witches’ fingernails
like Mortianna's in the Kevin Costner Robin Hood,
his son wore one in a photo pinned to his bedroom door, he played drums in a band in Australia.

It was always hard for Pärsəl to 
distinguish one art form from another
but he tried so hard to understand the artist
and place aesthetics over ideology
he left dried fruit for the pigeons that decorated the pavement outside the Gentlemen’s club
even though he hadn't researched safe diets for birds.
He didn't mind, it was the thought that counts and it amused him when the businessmen slipped on pigeon shit.

His shot glass collection was now used to dispense his medication, 
as he fumbled words
as his limbs deserted him
as his mind dropped memory from his skin 
and his insides moved outside
he listened to Bathory one last time
and sent his son a postcard.

By Quinton Farrow