Contributor: Paul Tristram

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The silver coal bucket reflects your beer
as you sit there cocained off your tits.
In a friends house in the countryside
next to a log fire spitting amber bits.
Your left elbow rests in a full ashtray
and your right foot looks too far away.
As you contemplate the coming morning
you stop and let your mind elsewhere stray.
The Damned are playing on the stereo again,
there’s a brass gong hanging on the wall.
The fireplace is a granite Stonehenge
not waiting for a magical druid to call.
Slowly the dawn seeps through the windows,
your friends they rise up from their rest.
A coffee and cooked breakfast for everyone
then again a search for that drunken nest.


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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.