We lounge in singed hotels
seeking salvation in burnt
pillowcases, mini bars filled
with bullet cases. We swig
gems down with vodka, rubies
cutting our throats to remind
us we are alive, somehow. So much
for not eating our gold horde.
Tomorrow is an illusion anyway.

The air ducts overflow with
shredded Gideons and cocktail
cherries. A toast to today!
We have been plucked out of time,
might as well enjoy ourselves.

Thirty year old whisky leaks
through the ceiling tiles,
like rain illuminated by fire.



David Ralph Lewis is a poet based in Bristol. He has two pamphlets out; Our Voices in the Chaos and Refraction. When not writing, he enjoys dancing badly at gigs and attempting to grow vegetables.