He wrote in whole form,
an oblong displays of life
above
the heads of the Zutist Circle.
Back and forth
swinging
like a guillotine.
He pinned art:
from lice, hunger pains, broken glass, booze, the dank smell of the sea, black pots, grime and diease.
He created expression from decay,
absurdity, desperation.
A prodigy child driven into throes
by the tongues of men.
He sucked life,
from withered bones,
with lips as blunt as
butter knives.