Sometimes he feels a subcutaneous truth,
warm liquors congregating
in the gullies left
where childhood went AWOL.
He wonders how no-one sees it
bulging from inside of him,
secreting through gaping pores
that refuse to stay blocked.
Like at his grandfather’s funeral
when a man he may have met once before
questioned his father’s demise;
‘some peculiar illness?’ the man offered,
and he felt the fat of the lie
melt in his windpipe, as he shot
a choking glance to his wife,
otherwise ensnared by familial duty.
‘Yes,’ he sputtered,
then gestured to an empty glass
and left in search of a drink.

John Newson has a wide variety of interests, ranging from architecture to zoology, and a corresponding inability to focus on any single task. He writes in an attempt to achieve such focus. He lives in Wiltshire, where he enjoys spending time in the countryside with his wife and two children.

John has work published or forthcoming with Hummingbird, Sleet, Allegro Poetry Magazine, The Moth and The Lyric, among various others.

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