Four kings rode in
with strings and skins
to bring salvation to me
on the streets of New Year’s Eve.
Then my friend would lend
contents of bookends
that induced solutions
to a common teenage problem.
I became incepted
to the greatest escape artist,
plus drowned-out voice
who talked me through the agony of lonesome pains.
Though association fades,
those days still replay in heavy bass,
or on the screaming face of a DVD case.
But when handshakes are met with drunken compliments,
it makes me question what it all meant.
Veins no longer contain baselines or nets
because the rent doesn’t even cover travel expense.
There are hotel pillars in a lake up town,
tacky Christmas decs have been taken down,
while two Jags are parked up outside dad’s house.
The nice-eyed lad,
Welsh running track,
and security-defying chap
in a flat cap
keep me from collapse.
As the album dies,
benign podcasts thrive.
energy drink lies
and paper bag highs
make laugh-cry emojis
hard to find.