The settee has turned into a floating raft…
swaying gently… like your hair against my chest
or fingertips climbing back down from foreplay.
I fell asleep/unconscious to the birds singing
through the early dawn and awoke in the dark
to blue flashing lights and sirens, not for me…
but, searching for someone else more immediate.
I formed smoke rings in impossible heart shapes…
then shattered them with my drunken fist.
Tore a chunk out of the shadows, crouching
and watching from the left-hand corner
and stuck my curious, demented head inside…
there was nothing in there but nostalgic hallucinations,
old scars and un-coveted preoccupations.
I burnt myself lightly, laughing like a child
and no one was close enough to hear or judge me.
I ate Rizla’s, ring pulls and my mobile phone,
without even a trace of salt or pepper,
but, with monumental, frightening, determination.
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 books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/
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