Saturday, 3 June 2017


Saturday's Pub garden, littered with a thousand twisted cigarette butts, the scattered smouldering tombstones of last night's drunken dreams.

Here birthed the Friday madness wild, thirsting gin soaked mind of child, like infant nourishment craved consumed, the gun within was there exhumed, a firing squad of gin bemused, revellers revelling, devillers devilling, swirling whirling plastic smiles, pavers quivering raindrop tiles, summer rain seeping in vain, from neon roofed city's inane, to wander country lanes insane, a blind walk of the drinker's train, speeding locomotive taught, relearning burning ethanol thought, tearing selfless selfish death, the last epiphany with one last breath, before the darkness deep draws down, the flickering light beneath the frown, where the suicidal businessman drowns, his sorrows borrowed from newspaper dreams, that filled the once fragile mind with screams, in descending begging please, release him from social unease, moments lived but to appease, a fathomless confusion clear smoke screen, that flashes with the cursor black, it's wires snigger behind your back, while slack jawed starring swearing you, convinced you are one of the few, who knew but never said a word, beguiled you smiled, brush muse away, the stroke left blood for them to play and pay and stray inside your mind, soul secrets there in stealth to find, and all forgotten rotten, men in white wheel you away, they say poor soul's gone round the loop, and there you sit in a rocking suit, pinstripe straight jacket just for you, and all that's left after their scoop; is the popular poisoned and once bitten fruit...

By David Nickle Read 3/6/17
All Rights Reserved By The Author

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