Gas Poem by S.A. Blair

A hand
Red with shame,
Which way now?
Ah yes,
The road oft travelled,
That forked escape.

A hiss of illicit fumbling,
Synapses spark
Igniting the poisoned vapour,
Although,
Noxious exhalations
Linger,
Coating the mouth,
I don’t spit.

A Trojan horse
The miasma swallowed,
Swathed in an envelope of treacle,
The honey long since perished,
The comb in bondage.


Relief, a neural ecstasy,
Suppressed,
A damp on my instrument,
Don’t wake the neighbour,
Regret,
My own burden
Not hers.

Now it’s me,
I self-administer,
A concoction
A little more tart,
The larynx
An irritable bouncer,
Time
will smooth the way