A barren branch kisses the pane,
adding hollow percussion
to the dirge, I direct at the
loss of everything, casting shadows
on the walls of my filthy retreat.
The whistling wind erodes time
carrying me eagerly toward dawn;
the dank musty smell of neglect
replacing the fragile fragrance
of another time, another place.
Random creaks, constant ticks,
a rustle of brittle leaves merge,
removing the soft velvet voice
that once called my name
with fondness, now spent.
I lay here in shit, open my eyes,
try to picture a face in the murk,
lean to kiss what appears a sweet
neck, and inhale the reek of
stale sweat on my pillowcase.
Tap tapping continues as I cower
beneath grime into oblivion where
accusation beats my brow and
I sink into the mire, with just a book
of fairy tales at my side.
Ruairi Fallon Mc Guigan’s (1993 Belfast) paintings, prints and objects combine memories, architectural desires, the domestic and his cultural background. Fictional spaces are constructed and distorted in order to convey insight into his political and domestic existence.