Porthole Scabs

She’s, amongst other things, an Empath…
I took her to a Ruined Prison
where we had a New Moon fumble
up against the back wall
of the, dilapidated, Condemned Cell.

I smash apart a chain-link
with a righteous hammer of Justice
each and every morning
straight after I break my fast…
it’s far superior to meditation,
or punching idiots (Just about).

“My mother wants to Smudge you,
she’s of a mind
that the orange blotches
which speckle your
mostly violet aura…
are in fact Porthole Scabs.
You’re like a cat
(Which explains your eyes)
you’ve got a foot in each World.”

It’s fascinating, but I find
that the more I learn,
and I’m absolutely bursting with it
at the present moment,
the less I have to explain myself…
and frowning’s simply an analysing smile.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.