Surrounded by mud, coloured with oil,

I sit on a giant tyre by a bonfire

Made from shit I shouldn’t burn

And sending bricks and pipes flying into

Headlights and windshields, or what’s

Left of them, but you have already,

In your own way, said I don’t have to

Worry about you staying out late.

You would rather watch him smoke

And keep the pitter-patter of a gentle

Rain off his penis by covering it with

A cocktail umbrella, than go inside

Where everyone’s lost in conversation.

 

Words: Aaron Fagan

Photography: De Bruce, 1999 by Philip-Lorca diCorcia