The only thing left are my cigarretes,
not even a stained canvass in winters first breath.
I breed in the gutteral burn of a strangers chest,
the madman, I am,
a booze hound for vacancies,
a florescent shine to my face,
I did not recognize it today.
The last time paint lingered on my skin
was before the haunting awareness
of scetching unanimated objects,
to make them faint together
a dance they make,
before this madman, I am,
told me to wake.