3 Poems by Gwil James Thomas

pool 2
I was nine years old
sat in the corner of the pub with
my fearless and immortal uncle
with his endless stories and scars –
that ranged from being shot in Bosnia,
to boxing in the military,
to falling down cliffs,
to climbing out of car wrecks
half dead, but also half alive.
There’d been a disagreement earlier
between my uncle and the three men
in the corner, something that
I’d presumed had been settled after
my uncle had beaten them at a game
of killer on the pool table,
but when they threw beermats at us
from across the pub with surprising
accuracy and one hit me in the lip –
I knew that it’d only just begun.
Ruffling my hair, my uncle then
downed his pint and walked outside
with the three of them.
By the time I got to the door and
peered outside one of the men
had disappeared and the other two
were on the floor,
as my now shirtless and bleeding
uncle stood over them and
sure enough, the police arrived –
arrested him and drove me home.
I never once saw any fear in his eyes,
not for that or anything else,
he was my hero, my blood, my uncle –
he taught me that fear was a fucker,
but after he’d escaped a moving car
that was speeding down
a French motorway to survive the fall,
only to be hit by a coach –
I also learnt more about fearlessness
and immortality then than he could
have ever taught me
in his thirty one
years on Earth.
Argentinian Croissant.
So, I try something
flakey but sweet,
familiar yet new –
I still get
even though
you remind me that
we’re just friends
and that’d be fine
except now I’ve
gotta work out
how to be
lonesome again –
a new dawn rises
over the beaches
streets and factories
and nothing lasts
forever and now
I’m thinking that’s
for the better –
I finish my coffee
and take a final
pastry bite
as the sun kisses
your neck,
maybe you’ll
be easier
as a memory –
flakey but sweet,
familiar yet new
so tasty whileit
Poem on The Line.  
I reeled it up
to the surface,
feeling like I’d soon
have a little
meat to feed
some lost souls –
yet when it
onto the deck,
chunks of it
were missing –
its sad mouth
slowly opening
and closing,
as if trying to
missing words,
but it was no use
it wasn’t the poem
I’d imagined –
so I smeared
what was left of its
guts onto this page,
kissed its head
and chucked it
back into the
drying ocean
of my mind,
for another tug
on the line
“Gwil James Thomas is a novelist, poet and inept musician originally from Bristol, England. In 2019 his poetry has been featured in East London Press’ 3 Poets Volume One and his fiction has been published in Low Light Magazine # 2. He also has two forthcoming poetry chapbooks from Concrete Meat Press and Holy & Intoxicated Publications. Other work can be found widely in print and also online. He currently lives in San Sebastián, Northern Spain.”

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