Bring Me The Head Of Unbridled Passion
Lay it down before me,
let’s take a look, let’s see.
The cause of all our problems,
the thing which ate at me.
It does not look so evil
but first impressions can lie.
It has claimed many victims,
it wills each sex to die.
It pulsates with a passion
but does not cry a sound.
A thing so disgusting
places millions underground.
My heart is now a stone,
I piss emotions down the drain.
Adam caught by an apple
should have done the very same.
But its fury was released
to stalk the willing earth.
It beat off contraception,
it smiles at each new birth.
I want it boiled in oil,
I want it bound in chains.
So that it can never, ever
devour my soul again.
© Paul Tristram 2006
Published in Erbacce, Issue 11, 2007
A Bastard Of The Sun
As resourceful as a thief
wearing a cloak of midnight.
I creep through neon poverty
always avoiding the common light.
As the shadows lick my face
my heart it quickens pace.
I seem to slide wonderfully
leaving only memories as a trace.
Fantastic when invisible
joyful in my power.
To melt the walls of reality
rain dancing to excesses shower.
The moss flies of directionless
as I roll the stones of danger.
Antagonizing righteousness
keeping complacency a stranger.
Ready, willing but never able
to escape the blizzard of the absurd.
A bastard of the sun
a moonshine wizard of words.
Disaster teases frequently
misery courts my company.
The weight of wonder’s a strange trap
that always seems to capture me.
Ironic as it is
I set myself up for the fall.
Painful as it is
the price is never small.
I live my life instantly
I never got on with my patience.
Devastation will be your doctor
if you insist on being its patient.
© Paul Tristram 2006
Published in Erbacce, Issue 11, 2007
Paul
Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo
porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
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