Police Cell Blues and The Early Morning Dehydration Shake

Your ‘Soul’ is becoming sterile
[trouble strains yet cleanses]
… this has all become
far too boring and familiar.
I know what those bottom tiles,
upon that blood-splattered wall
… taste like.
I unbend from knots,
at an alarming rate
… and my mind is armed
with spiteful knives of defiance.
I stopped saying “No Comment”
after the third draaawwwl…
and just mouth-clicked “et cetera”
over and over again…
as the questioner’s voice grew,
changing pitch dramatically…
like I was a Concert Conductor
… and pushing onwards to an
almost excruciating crescendo
… I left him hanging in silence.
The ‘Winner’ doesn’t tantrum
… pointless battles
until the door’s finally unlocked
… and the cold concrete
catches my guilty… wastrel feet.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.