The Writer's Voice
The World's Favourite Literary Website



Rusty Broadspear

 The paintwork around the doors and windows glistened

The wall paper became damp and begun to peel and fall,

I was as calm as ocean waves in the eye of a storm,

I knew the hit and hurt would come with the squall.


The bed was filthy, my head was numb, my clothes were damp,

The Moon was low, so was I, the dark hurt my eyes.

I was jerky, excitable, agitated, I turned on the lamp,

No food, no drink, only needles and stuff, so Iíd got supplies.


The ceiling dripped water, I know, I felt it on my skin,

I saw water in my veins as I lay in indoor rain

I knew the hell-bound hit was about to begin

I was going insane, but in no state to complain.


The filthy stinking mattress was now a waterbed

Man I was rocking and grooving, and descending fast.

This, was not for kids, this was watershed

And believe me garage listeners, this awareness doesnít last.


It was when I was riding the reaperís cart, I saw water,

But pure, uncontaminated, not good enough to inject,

I was on the slab, raw meat, or queuing for slaughter

I wasnít steak, chops or minced beef, I was wrecked.


But you see, you garage, house, innocent young folk,

Iím in a home, where you canít move nothing but your head,

I survived, someone phoned, and when I awoke

I was in good hands - I could be dead - in that wet room instead.

Critique this work

Click on the book to leave a comment about this work

All Authors (hi-speed)    All Authors (dialup)    Children    Columnists    Contact    Drama    Fiction    Grammar    Guest Book    Home    Humour    Links    Narratives    Novels    Poems    Published Authors    Reviews    September 11    Short Stories    Teen Writings    Submission Guidelines

Be sure to have a look at our Discussion Forum today to see what's
happening on The World's Favourite Literary Website.