In the stall,
of a public toilet,
in my home town
is where Billy Wallace
wound up with the back of his skull splattered against a tiled wall.
My old man told me the story
of how Billy Wallace,
just 3 days before my birth,
shot himself in the head after finding out his long time girlfriend had been sucking someone else’s cock for several years.
In rage he shot her twice, blowing away the violating orifice from her face.
Fifteen minutes later he too would be dead.
Some unfortunate kid found Billy, when he entered the toilet
to take a shit.
Billy’s brains where all over the stall,
and by the time of his discovery,
they had become a feast for swarming flies.
After the cops packed him up in a bag,
and took Billy away ,
Some fucking low ranking city worker had to clean up the mess.
Fourty six years after the event,
I make a point of visiting where Billy Wallace drew his last breath,
and put the barrel of a gun into his mouth.
I go into the stall, sit on the toilet
and feel both his presence,
and the strange sensation,
of being in a place
of pure violence.