Read Poem: Portway, by David Pike

“Breath the nice air,”
he said, leaning across
the adjustable chair
and shoving a flexible mask
over my nose
and mouth.
I started to gag
biting down hard
on a rubber bung
he’d previously shoved
between my teeth
and tongue.

Slowly the lights
went out
and a weird dream about Telstar
zoomed in and out
together with a soundtrack;
keyboard music blasted out,
then a creaking, grinding sound
entered my brain.
It creaked, stopped
and creaked again
followed by a sudden
snap. . .

And through a haze of fog
a voice was heard.
“wake up,” it said
“there’s a good lad,”
as consciousness returned
with a blood-filled mouth.

I made a hasty retreat
with parent in-tow
dripping gore along the
on the way home.

© copyright David Pike, 26th April 2018

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