Wordsworth Scrubs by Paul Tristram

The sky outside of this window seems to be made of a dark sort of living skin, I can almost feel it breathing, the stars are merely ulcers in the belly of its being. No wonder birds only choose to fly and sing in the daytime- well except for owls but they fly with the aid of silent wing feathers so as not to disturb its quiet melancholy.
The planet earth is simply the dust that has collected beneath its mattress, we mean nothing to it, we are merely an annoying buzzing which disturbs its slumber with tiny high-pitched drunken cries and fireworks.
The song thrush which rests in the hedgerow waits patiently for the dawn to lift away the skies depression while the Prozac sun filters its soft warm medication into the pores of its soft skin, giving it the strength to carry on for at least one more day.
I pity the sky; it has no eyelids to close, its view is only temporarily cleansed by the passing of the many indifferent rain clouds. What does the moon matter when it can only shine for its selfish self, as for the other planets, they unhelpfully turn away in uncaring disbelief to talk two-facedly with the meteors about the alien satellites we’ve sent up amongst their tired midst.
Would a sudden night time rainbow not spare the pain of the skies midnight watch, would it not show us that there is life beyond the realms of light?
As something far stronger than gravity chains me here to this slightly insane typewriter, I fancy the world as a graveyard- a temporary one of course- which waits irritably for me to stop my defiant tip-tapping of keys and to come join in the repose of stillness.
Ah, in the hammock of my dreams tonight, I shall send multitudes of unspoken, unbroken secrets upwards into its tired heart, to explode into sparks of wonder, emancipating its emotions, freeing its anguish and giving back hope and laughter to its fragile sphere, maybe then the night can once again sleep with the deep, blissfulness of infancy just like I remember it doing when I was young and innocent.
Yes, I know, impossible wishes but I’m sure you won’t begrudge me at least trying?
The fridge flew upwards at an incredible speed and crashed straight through the ceiling, I half fell half leaped off the wooden chair- which fell stupidly to the carpet where it lay in solemn apathy waiting for someone to help it upright once again- and dove backwards onto my mistreated bed.
There was a square hole in the ceiling where the fridge had disappeared, I started to shake yet started smiling in disbelief, then the phone rang angrily, I turned my gaze at it and scowled. It started ringing louder, I continued to ignore it, I was more interested in the hole in my ceiling- how the hell was I going to be able to hide this? surely someone would notice and of course no one would believe me, no one ever does, I’d end up having to work for a living- then the phone started to ring louder, so much so that the gentle coffee table which is imprisoned beneath it, started to tremble and squeak in the usual pathetic way which mahogany behaves.
I snatched up the receiver and spat into the mouthpiece,
“Leave me alone, this room is mine, you only enter when I give you permission!
I was about to slam the phone back down when a voice spoke,
“Take heed young man, this is your first and final warning, learn to live without the fridge, it will be hard at first but every lesson worth learning is, the ceiling will heal in time, time is a great healer, go seek the answer, the answer severed from all questions!”
The mouthpiece died in my hands, I replaced the receiver with repulsion, stood up, circled the glowing carpet thrice in an anti-clockwise fashion. I decided to call it a day, crawled under the bed, sank into a nervous contemplation and decided that on the morrow I would hand in my four weeks’ notice and look for new lodgings in a saner part of town, I knew of a shop which sold road maps, I’d go there as soon as it opened, for surely they could direct me and with this happy thought I unconsciously fell asleep.

The stray horse had broken into a wax warehouse with the use of a broken garden spade, it had busted open three crates with its front hoofs and had eaten its fill of candles.
Having built up quite a thirst, the horse proceeded to circle the warehouse, nodding its head from side to side looking for some sort of liquid refreshment.
An hour passed and still the horse had not been able to find anything to quench its thirst, the horse had now come to a stop- without really being aware that it had stopped- in one of the warehouses dimly lit corners. Something upon the wall moved, he stepped forward and peered intently at the tiny object and at once recognized it as being a spider.
As he stood there calmly observing the eight-legged insect the horse suddenly began to wonder how the spider satisfied its own thirst. Now the horse had seen many spiders in its time, scurrying, climbing, crawling, dangling, building cobwebs and of course eating flies but never had the horse so much as glimpsed a spider drinking any sort of liquid.
The horse reasoned to itself that spiders must have some kind of water supply upon its person, probably in tiny sacks within the lining of its throat, which would automatically disperse the water whenever the spider’s body required it.
What remarkable little creatures, thought the horse to himself, then with a lunge the horse grabbed the spider between his lips and pulled it into his mouth, where it munched and swallowed the insect contentedly.
Sadly the horses thirst was unchanged, so the horse moved off around the warehouse moving barrels and old house bricks, pallets and tin sheets looking for more spiders. For the horse had come to the conclusion that if he were to eat enough of them the little water sacks within the spider’s throats would burst inside his own mouth while he was chewing them, thus relinquishing the dry aching which was clinging persistently to his own throat (It seems that you just can’t Fuck with a farmyard education?)
But unfortunately his little plan ended up tits up, to put it quite plainly it did not work, the horse had managed to find and eat about thirty of the little insects and his predicament was unchanged. Exhausted, he folded his legs under himself upon a large wooden packing pallet and drifted off to sleep.
He was awoken suddenly by the screeching of police sirens, he jumped quickly onto his hoofs and in a state of panic swung his tobacco coloured mane around as his eyes searched for some form of escape route.
But it was too late, the Filth burst in through the broken door- team handed- flashing torches and waving long, black, wicked looking batons around.
“Hit the fucking deck scumbag, your arse is grass and we’re the fucking lawnmowers, ya thieving Bastard!” came a shout from amongst the sea of black uniforms.
The horse did as it was told; it lay back down upon the pallet and waited for the mob of angry faces to approach him, of course he knew what would happen next, he had been around the block a few times already and knew the Roger Moore (Score!) only too well.
He was roughly cuffed and dragged to the hungry mouth of the riot van, thrown inside with a thousand curses, where he noticed that he was to share his journey with a balaclavared donkey, who was sat in the corner (No, not that corner, it was the other one!) smoking an extremely thin roll-up.
When he came up before the Rottweiler Judge he pleaded insanity but his plea was ignored and he was sentenced to two years hard labour down at The Old Knackers Yard, Wordsworth Scrubs.
Where he has learnt a new trade, he’s on the pool table every night at association and forgetting modesty has literally become shit-hot at the game.
He intends to give up his career as a burglar upon his release and take up pool hall hustling instead, it entails many more hours work than burglary but the rewards more than make up for this- what with all those barmaids and shit.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/


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