Chris Guidon

Stabbing

The air was nearly opaque with the heavy heat.
People moving upright everywhere; dizzied, sort
of lost. 
             We found the blood at the back of the pub.
Like excrement.

                              A straight line.
From the pub through the alley to the phone-box by the shops.

Blood like art,
illustrating panic.

                                The fourth dead on the estate that summer.
As with art, each piece has only six seconds to excite
interest 
                 before the viewer moves on
to contemplate the TV, their relationships, searing violence.     
               
           Apparently it was over a ten bag.
                                                                Something to fill the void.