Hi, how are you holding on?

Are you tired? It’s okay.
Look how far you are now.
You will get there.

blood                                                  
blood patter and splash                            
leads us         concrete toward
tracing back        til the scene        
i’ve flashing thoughts of the brutality
   the violence     that must of cussed  
  between persons            
         in fear    fray    and inebriation

down the steps                                     
            my four year old child and I go          
the greasing bleed     in bronze putters  
growing and leadening
on stone labours

glowing citrus    the refrigeration
                          of the underpass
          ‘flips the bird'   at the summer blaze
grey dead coral bricks of urination  
seasoned in deep   beading now cold
the broke up weapon                        
                   candy slates of brittle teeth
glass / bottle / beer /brown
    the neck its' hilt              
     and the main mud of the bleeding

the flies are the thing                                
                         th­at bothers my ‘little nipper’
usually a flapper of queries on repetition
no other queries are raised
     just eager for the vibration
      of train carriages gatling over our heads

i stopper any words i may have on the matter
  he holds my hand with his hot hand
we progress under a port arms                                   
                            procession of caged floodlights
      and walled in by fresh graffiti
fingers dripping   retching for the guttering