Tango in a Teacup

By Chris Foster

In this collection of poetry, you will find brutally honest survival stories, humorous retellings, mythical creatures, coasts, depressed liars, happily homeless writers, old swindlers, free donuts, some dark storm clouds and plenty of sunny days. There is loss, grief and the revival that comes with learning how to live again after all manner of divorce. Styles vary, but mostly this collection is free verse with the occasional rhyme. 

Which leaves only one question for you, dearest reader;
Shall we tango?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Foster
• Release date: Dec 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386445517

Book preview

The Familiar Car Crash

Chapter One: Family

Mum

Your hug is a massage for the heart

Dad

No gun can shoot where you make me bleed

Judgement Day

Boil the jug

Teaspoon of sugar

Watch the crystals melt

Watch the vapours rise

In the cold morning air

Smell the smoke

Smell the burn

Toast blackened one side

White when overturned

Feel the scrape of blade

Feel the crust fracture

Butter smoothing rough

Soaking into the dry sponge

Hear the crunch

Hear the knife placed heavily down

Clatter against china

Not a word said

Flick of the paper opened

Divorce forms on page three.

Divorce

Your words

Beat my heart

Your silence

Stills it

Your games

Destroy it

Your absence

Frees it

Drifting

We drove away

From our home

From our lives

From our dreams

From our friends

We were driven away

Never to return

No place to hang our clothes

No morning routine

No vision for the future

No sound of a best friend’s laugh

We drove away

Because of the twisted games

People play

Mended Crown

O Prophet,

Applaud my ears with a tale of family tragic bound,

Roll off your tongue the building of their castles and birthing of heroes,

Let slip from your mouth the monstrosities that stalk this land,

And the lies that surround villains in shroud,

Great envisage of truth, divine mouthpiece, recorder of the past,

Sing a story that will change my perspective,

Of this half empty glass.

The Jungle Book

We owned dogs for a while. Then fish. A bird or two. Some free range spiders. The occasional house guest moth. Twice a resident bat. Yet no cats. Never cats. I blame the jungle book. Mum blames allergies. I think we both know who is right.

18th

He drives to die

Drinks to poison

Fights to fall

Murders the boy

For a man

To take it all

Thoughts

Some days my mind is quick and sly

Some days my mind is slow and blunt

Some days my mind remembers things

Some days my mind forgets

If only I could choose the days.

Town

Nowhere town filled with nowhere people

Nothing to do with the nothing here

Silent yearnings in silent conversations

The butterflies fly free

Reader

I know not where she goes

Between ink and page

She travels she is not here

To forests and seas that don’t exist

I know not where she is

Planeswalker of the words

Present or gone matters little

To the flow of the river

This place between page and ink

Past her skin past her house

Past all that is

She goes and is gone and flies or swims or cries or lies or burns or plays games with kings

I know not but she has left

For a world between madness and dream

She travels like skin between sheets

Yet has not moved from in front of me.

Another Roll of the Dice

Old man Trembles,

He’s caught himself the ceaseless shake,

They say that drinking was his biggest mistake,

Now not even he knows,

Where his body’s going to go,

Everything has had to change,

He no longer plays the game,

So little still remains,

Of the man who chased monsters under my bed,

But what’s a man supposed to do,

When he’s gone and lost you,

I’m afraid I may be going the same way,

Let