Oh My, That Was Very “Immoral” Of You… Come Closer, My Dear

Damp crushed velvet
and upturned
antique, wooden furniture
… the early afternoon
is hanging by a whisper
… as I awake you,
with hungry, selfish kisses,
and guilt-ridden, hurried,
fabrications of last night’s
with my filthy,
razor-sharp tongue.
something went off,
when you kicked out your foot,
it’s buzzing somewhere
buried at the bottom
of this despicable bed
… it’s positively wretched
laughing when annoyed.
Your breakfast is all lined up,
waiting upon the mirror…
and there’s a cold beer can
next to the full ashtray
to wash it all Down…
I know, I promised,
that I wouldn’t say
our favourite word
… until, at least, after
your first joint or cigarette,
(just like our decency, Ha!)
has disappeared up in smoke.

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.