Chemistry, Controlled Chaos And Connection
I can feel you still ‘smiling’
when I (briefly) look away
… and you caught
my faint ‘stammer’
inside your delicate mouth
whilst I was explaining
the way my ‘insides’
dislodge and fall…
the very moment you awake
… and we conspire
over re-introductional kisses
… to neither dim ‘Trouble’
nor hide from its
… cRoOkEd pathway…
through the topsy-turvy Day.
He Killed Everything In His Garden
~ the short story which accidentally turned into a poem ~
Fingertips (slightly) bouncing
off piano keys a-tremble
at the edge of my nerves
… and the morning blackbirds
look the way double bass
strings sound with arco…
melting away heavy rainfall.
Sorry, I got distracted again
… here’s your chance
to do your jigsaw thingy
and fit an ‘imagery embrace’
snuggled right up
into my meandering thoughts.
What I like about you best
is that when I show you
my ‘nice side’
… you instantly reciprocate,
rather than… ‘Menu-Browse’.
“… Is the ‘Finger-walking’ cryptic?”
Pausing to answer
deflates MOMENTUM
… work it out yourself or stay
confused… my involvement stops.
“You’re mistaking ‘Garrotting’
for ‘Disembowelling’… is it
Lucy? Cool, send her my love.
It’s sort of like ‘Lexical-Gustatory
Synaesthesia’… I can taste
the smell of old lady beggar hands
which have been re-counting
pennies whilst clumsily drinking
Styrofoam cupped tea… whenever
she says the word ‘Cuddle’…
any other female and it
tastes like cherries, or cake dough.
No-no, I absolutely insist
… you take ‘All of this/that’…
I’m quite content with the Doorway.”
Top-heavy Indian Summer
I’m busy,
psychically
pebble-skimming
the late afternoon
… rippling
pockets of peace
and quiet
with my curiosity
and sideways view.
I’m not, exactly,
intruding,
more observing
with outside-the-box
perception.
Dipping my
inquisitive toe
into the rhythmic
pond water
which dwells
in-between
what’s yet to be said
… in answer…
to what has already
been spoken.
To The Root
The excavation was a lengthy operation,
to say the least.
The emotional support beams buckled daily.
Each cavern grew smaller in size…
as the throbbing pulse drew her down deeper.
There was a waterfall of thought, halfway in,
where a dim glow, I shan’t call it a light,
radiated melancholia,
and a strange, eerie, out-of-tune melody
strangled itself, over and over again,
to the background drumming heartbeat.
The shelf of regret, just below,
was unstable to both foot and hand holds,
and the moths of vertigo face-fluttered
in demented, blinding, fury.
At the very bottom,
she found the essence of herself, at last…
rocking back-and-fore,
upon the floor of a hut
made of the bones of memory.
Cradling a snake to her breast,
which emanated a beacon of false hope,
whilst at the very same time,
devouring twice the prize it was deceptively giving.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, flash fiction and short stories published in hundreds of publications all around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
His novel “Crazy Like Emotion”, short story collection “Kicking Back Drunk ‘Round The Candletree Graves” and poetry collection “The Dark Side Of British Poetry” are all available from Close To The Bone Publishing.