Portrait

	PORTRAIT NINE (Solo voice) He stands at the kerb of the busy street and, as he shits, his trousers slip down, the brown smear sliding on his white skin. Entwining himself in his mind externals seldom feed his paranoia. I won't go near. I won't involve myself in his torture. I don't have to. Years later, the pity and the guilt remain. He said: 'I won't base for lawns, nor see eight death acts, eight; no con shuns me.' Who knows best what it's like being alive?

PORTRAIT NINE (Solo voice)

He stands at the kerb of the busy street
and, as he shits, his trousers slip down,
the brown smear sliding on his white skin.

               Entwining himself in his mind
               externals seldom feed
               his paranoia.

I won't go near. I won't
involve myself in his torture.
I don't have to.

               Years later, the pity
               and the guilt
               remain.

He said: 'I won't base for lawns,
nor see eight death acts, eight;
no con shuns me.'

               Who knows best
               what it's like
               being alive?