Bukowski Afternoon by Paul Tristram

I awake upside down and giddy, again.
Head upon the sticky carpet
with my body sloping up
at an insane angle
onto the settee.
I gag, cough and spit something
wet sponge textured and ashtray tasting
as far away from me as I can manage.
Twist, fall and pull myself up
onto my shaking legs,
steadying the sloshing mess of my insides
by grabbing a-hold of the settee arm
and squeezing tight.
As my battered soul tries first
to suicidally leave
then secondly
to re-fix and adjust itself once more
within this weary, sickly frame.
I glance down and see 2 opened beer cans,
I reach for the closest
but am rewarded instantly
with a mouthful of ash and roach-ends.
I gag, wretch and throw up some stomach bile
onto and over my stupid feet
as my entire body spasms and bursts alive
with the tingly beer dew sweats.
I desperately lunge and swoop for the 2nd can
and am rewarded by warm, flat perfection,
I guzzle it down like a drowning man
dropping the now redundant empty vessel
with an exasperated wince
similar to the one reserved for the memory
of fucking that ugly, selfish ex-girlfriend.
Then with one black but both red watery eyes
I survey properly the destruction
of the small living room
being satisfied with everything
apart from the large orange thing
with the small axe embedded in it.
(It turned out to be that nice Mr Wells
prize winning pumpkin
from 3 gardens up, oh dear!)
I give a thoughtful, artistic nod
and sweep my gaze over to the half intact
wall mirror to see your handwritten
in smeared blood red lipstick, my favourite.
I stagger on over and rub out the letter ‘H’
with my beer damp shirt sleeve
and a massive smirk lighting up
my tired and hung-over face.
Then stepping lightly
through the broken glass,
wood splinters and assorted debris
with a song in my heart
and a curse rolling around in my mouth.
I head for the kitchen and sanctuary (The fridge!)
mentally and skilfully constructing
the first vicious, mean, stinging words
that I will throw at you via the telephone
in approximately 3 beer cans time.

paul bodmin jail
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 And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

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