Tom Jayston




I am peering at my moon-weary face in an isosceles shardof mirror that seems more suited to stabbing a man in thethroat than as an aid to shaving, and I do not smile. Therazor makes an effort, attempting to circumvent its bluntnessby engaging in a tug of war with each crusty, beer-gildedhair. In the mirrorweapon, I see myself wince as the clumpsare yanked from the follicles. The sharp early morning airdoes not help, but I finish and roll a cigarette. Anne told methat today might be the beginning of a new life for me. Ifnew lives begin like this, she …Read more

The Piano Man

Black and white is too severe with no ascending gradation. Fingers dance a rolling jig and spin a tone sensation. Language alive in digits alone speaks a sonorous tongue. His music – a song never written; a song always sung. The words we seek are ineffective – failed communication. Verbal trash cannot replace antiquity’s stimulation. Hammers fall on tense strings; smiles in the hospital room. Twinkling chimes, repeated rhymes, pierce the amnesiac gloom.  

“Self-Pitying Attempt At Humour No. 4382″

 I am not a poet. I am a cloud of fierce Emotion that drifts and veers Directionless.The page is my birthplace.I am not a poet. I pretend to write Words of shattering, staggering insight And truth.I am my own subject.I am not a poet. I have nothing to say Concerning anything in the world today Or at any time.I am not bothered.I am not a poet. But thank you for deigning To hear my vain attempts at feigning Literary aptitude.I feel honoured.

“Improbably Me”

The people I am tell the people I am notThat if the people I could be embraced the peopleI used to be and if the information receivedFrom the various parties was collected, collated,Intellectually dissected and the resulting dataPored over, analysed, statisticallyAppraised, then I would find, as with theAerodynamics of a bumblebee,That I am not physically possible. 

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