by J. Sean Rafferty
He cried a river of piss
upside a stone tree
in a scarce marble forest
by a motorway. Mud caked
on this new blue suede shoes
from the ground he ploughed
through as lorries and cars shot
passed like so many fireworks that
would never go bang.
Disco ball stars among cocktail constellations
proved to be as much consolation as their more
intoxicating counterparts, perhaps more so
as is the fashion in this day and age.
After all some kids today have never seen
the stars rolling above the clouds but
the same stars have seen plenty of drunks
before this one and gave
none of his predecessors answers either.
Regardless of their silence
and his wonder, a creeping darkness fell over
his nodding head on the way, way home.
It was descending before, like a shadow
in the corner of your eye,
a premonition, something following
that had yet to catch him.
It stalked him at pre-drinks,
crept around the dance floor
among strobe lights and liquor,
it hailed the taxi they shared.
It was patient, it knew it was to wait.
But now it was close, it was more
apparent. He was whimpering,
struggling with his zipper to the
tick tick ticking of the meter in
the taxi standing idle as it
climbed calmly out of the backseat
and followed the mud-prints of a
new pair of blue suede shoes.
Drunk ones don’t form so easy.
He’d stand on the edge of a grave,
the very edge, in that moment between
the fall
and the falling.
His heart in his mouth,
his head filled with a static screeching fear
his body cold as… well as cold as the grave.
His teeth clicked back to the ticking
as the premonition passed over,
walked through him, found its moment of rest.
He wondered who was trotting on his grave
tonight. Later he’d pour into bed, his thoughts
would dribble out of his ears and stars would
remain silent to the puddled musings on his pillow.
Tomorrow he’d realise he wasn’t in a forest.
Forests don’t have crosses and angels
J. Sean Rafferty is a redhead, a godfather and an eejit. He is an MA student at the University of Ulster and was a finalist in the 2018 Ulster Poetry Slam. His work has previously been published in Gravitas and The Paperclip. When not losing games of pool he, sometimes, writes stuff. @Atlas_snow on Twitter.
