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