Sitting Under The Aching Tree Where I Almost Chewed My Little Finger Off In Adolescence

Here I am again,
the skull between my feet
a resting place for the small axe.
The mace in my right hand
and cleaver in the left
are draped invadingly
upon the opposite sides
of where they should be.
I chew the gravel
selectively no more
and spit over the disgust
that stretches away in front of me.
You are sleeping now,
like stupid pigeons,
ignorant to the lightning
waiting above you.
Yet here I sit
chewing on the stump of memory,
my mind always there
two feet away from your face,
waiting for my conscience
to evaporate,
God Help You!

Slaughter Stones

Blackened by experience
I once more unsheathe
the sword of aggression,
standing back to back
with self preservation,
I hack and slice
into the oncoming hoards.
Masks of terror split,
bones and blood spill
from the walls of flesh
that once secured them,
I am the howling winds,
the midnight woods
alive and approaching.
The seed of Slaughter Stones
full grown and strong,
suckled upon the death
you brought to my crib
and now addicted
to this nightmare.
I shall give it back to you
a hundred fold.

The Bucket

She cringed,
crying silently “Why!”
Eyes fixed forward
into the greyness
there would be no looking down
that’s where hell waits.
Her fingers were claw like,
white knuckled and shaking.
1, 2, 3, 4
She counted her footsteps,
madness lay in thoughts
and memories
so once again
1, 2, 3, 4
She was now used to the clanging
in the metal bucket
she levelled at her waist
but the squishing noises
made her soul cave in
every time she heard them
for she knew it must be his nose,
his beautiful nose.
1, 2, 3, 4

By Paul Tristram