slit wrist sky

Beneath slit
wrist sky scampers
the empty wretch.
Hunting down a Rothko Door
between black-void alleys.
Foul stench pools of blood fleck
his grime embroidered
rags and dregs of thought.
Clicks
The clicks and clacks of drawing back
The latch;
the boot-thread thuds on his flat door.
He is dragged, ploughed through
Dirt amid fangs, claws, wild death throws, screeches - and screams.
Cracked head on cobblestone
Echoes in the hollow note of mice.
Stale and dead eyes mask the
lust of the throng.
Steady hands pound bullet after bullet into his body. Chipping bone, burning flesh and
Breaking slate.

Red seeps around black cobble;
The opening of a Rothko Door