In Roller door reds

 The Red graffiti hangs off the aluminium roller door.
It is a skeleton of truth
In the a language created by lost junkies
Devoid of identity

The signs of branch veins
Waiting for a jagged world
A thousand impossible truths
the mind won't digest

The long walk home through empty streets
Eyes magnetic to red graffiti
The speed of blood
abominable script proscribed

drip stain blood
society vampire
devoid of identity
hanging bats hidden in the abandoned garage

Homeless vagabonds fall against the rollerdoor after dusk
It flips up like a tongue retorting but moves inward
swallowing the vagrant into the void
Where his blood will sustain another night of painting