I threw away an old pair of shoes today.
They were a few years old
and the seams had begun to burst
particularly about the sole, there was one hole big enough
to slide a toe through.
It’s winter and I don’t need them anymore
so they became trash.

Someone returned a relic of my past to me recently.
It was a dreamcatcher,
a furnace big enough to fit my most evil of nightmares.
It was a gift from a person I once knew.
I was looking at it one night
for a long time;
I took it from the wall where it had been hanging
and tossed it into a nearby garbage can.

I can handle my nightmares on my own now.

I’m shaking off the weights of the things I don’t need
because,
if there’s a lesson I’ve learned in my adulthood,
it is to travel often
and to travel light.

Plain and simple, I didn’t need those old shoes.
I have leather boots.
They’re warm and waterproof and will never get holes in them.

They were as good as dead weight-

so I let them go.

The guilt will subside, for
a day at least - and the barkeep
will pour one more drink, to numb
the taste of an inevitably regretful
and shadowed past.

   These fingers, dipped in a hysterical
paint of red, taste much nicer than her
auburn eyes would have expected -
considering the
deathly circumstance of this
night.

As the lark calls outside, society
turns its head - slightly - a nod of
recognition to the disrupted
path between the
trees.

And

While he and she watch on
like those cursed with
a panging desire to idle under
azul clouds, the barkeep’s client
drinks with an avid intent.

There's a magician in the corner,
and he's showing you his tricks,
while you thumb through old photo-
graphs in a vain attempt to grasp
something meaningful from your past.

That trip to Cornwall, when those
gypsies stole your bodyboard, well at
least it made sense to blame them – at the time.
Foot pierced from beneath, blood along
the sandy beach, a trail to your then
present discomfort.

Back in the jingle-jangle room, the magician has
revealed your card – it was the four of hearts, yeah ?
Artificial applause echoes around you and
the photos, you've creased without
even realising.

Familiar faces shift with expressions,
like Freud in motion, acrylic, synthetic
and somewhat flamboyant people. This room
is where it's at, so you keep telling yourself,
character's from Kerouac laughing at the magician
who's dropped his cards, accidental confetti.

As the smoke thickens, your
grip loosens on what church-folk
call reality and perhaps even, dignity.
You return the photos to the mantel-
piece, amongst plastic teeth, tobacco
and important papers.

As your friend interviews himself
in the mirror, and somebody
licks the inside of a plastic bag,
because he's efficient, after all,
you crane your neck upwards and
hysterically laugh at the crazy patterns
in the ceiling.

The sun is waning, 
the earth getting cold,
the rivers are slowing,
as night's hand takes hold.
 
The bottles are empty,
the bread's gone stale,
the table deserted,
flesh is turning pale.
 
The leaves have fallen,
the paths are lost,
the birdsong over,
floor's hard with frost.
 
The door is shut,
the house it is dark,
the souls stuck outside,
are naked and stark.
 
The laughter has ceased,
the smiles are broken,
the memories are ashes,
all final words are spoken.

Sniff, wince,
adjust the black hat
sticking to your damp head.
Where the **** am I?

You know, so the conversation
continues, cracking white
in a manic laughter.

Crane your head to somewhere
else, ******* aliens wrapped
in an unnervy heat,
watching you.
Where the **** am I?

Long inhale, lion’s sleepy breath
amongst the din of unfamiliar
noises - unsure if you’re fond
of the narcissist’s choice.
Who is he anyway?

Looking right to the mirror,
or an old bus window,
startled by its revelation
you crash back into the room.
What the **** was that?

Voices tickle you, unwanted
intruders wrapped in bright
blue dots, “it’ll make it better
for you guys” she says before
falling behind closed eyelids.

Carving my thoughts into
your flesh, with my tongue,
tracing hideous metaphors
all over you – tonight.
The porcelain touch of
your freckled breast, a play
dough mound is my reminiscent
toy – tonight.
Violent lights flicker at our
bedside, casting dying angels
on the wall, sinking into a dark
irrelevance – tonight.

Im sitting in a French café,
people watching and methodically
casting judgement. I feel
like George Orwell.

My coffee has gone cold,
but the taste has not died
like the warmth, and as
a man walks in, his face
creased by the unforgiving years,
I order another one anyway.