August 15, 2012

Tristan Moss

the pensioner

he told me he preferred his house
with its drafts and fires
that burn all day
rooms that in the dark
still contain the crisp night air.
and in the lazy summer months
windows and doors wide open
letting in insects that bite and sting.
and with a cat that keeps the mice at bay
but never quite gets rid of them.

being happy

they said
the rain was a historical hoax
but I didn't believe them.
the pavement was wet
and the clouds were still dark.
but they said this was how
the best hoaxes are
and that a few moments before
the sun had been shining.


at the shopping centre or multiplex
where everything's together,
I sometimes feel
like the city-centre
where most of the shops, bars and people
including myself
have disappeared.


the peninsulas of my personality
that I'd like to think
were formed by rapid lava flows
pushing out into the sea,
were in fact
by erosion.


Tristan Moss lives in Sheffield where he works as an English language teacher. He has had poems published in Magma, Snakeskin, The Journal, Elimae and other fine places. He can be contacted at

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