Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Mad Cow Disease

I remember being in a relationship once
that was disastrously ‘On The Rocks’
We drove to a campsite somewhere
out in the wilds off Bodmin Moor
to try and patch things up again.
‘We spend all our time in the pub’
she had said like it was a bad thing?
‘Drinking and fighting and generally
creating a bloody mess and disturbance’
‘But I like that’ I had replied with a smile.
‘We’ll pitch the tent and go off walking
in the vast, beautiful British countryside
and breath in deeply the fresh summer air.
We’ll have time to talk about other things
like baby names, home decorations,
furnishings, TV soap dramas and work’
When we arrived at the place we were
notified straight away that all walking areas
directly outside of the campsite were now
completely out of bounds for the foreseeable
future because of  Mad Cow Disease.
That they currently had no fun activities
since the woodland and lake closure
but they did have an on site public house.
I took it as a sign and walked over to the bar
laughing loudly as she scowled besides me.
And it only took 6 hours of serious drinking
to finally find a solution to our problem
and say goodbye to each other permanently.

© Paul Tristram 2014

 

Run Down, Run Over, Run Out

He was just one of those dirty old drunks
that you see wandering around town
wearing a big overcoat even in the Summer.
He was married to my Grandfather’s Sister-
on my Mother’s side-until he went destitute.
They’d given my Grampa two and a half years
in prison for stabbing him before I was born,
my Mother still has the newspaper cuttings.
He never even said ‘Boo’ to me when I started
drinking in the Skewen pubs, knew who I was see.
It was in that backstreet behind the old Co-op
in Neath centre just down from the Taxi Rank.
It was one of those big delivery trucks that did it,
around 4 or 5 o’clock in the bloody morning.
The Driver said he was just laying there
in the middle of the road and looked just like
a bunch of rags so he drove straight over him.
He was my Auntie’s Father somewhere back
on down that long and miserable road of ruin.
Christ, I can’t even remember his name now?
Except when I was a kid the women would spit
and refer to him as ‘That Useless Bastard!”

© Paul Tristram 2014

Pityriasis Rosea

I took off my shirt and there it was
a purple and red rash
made up of little circles
and half-circles.
I had never seen anything like it before.
It was really quite pretty
and very interesting to look at,
it covered my left shoulder.
I stood inspecting it for ages
then I took myself off to the doctors.

“It’s Pityriasis Rosea,
a stress related rash,
I can do nothing for it,
it will clear up on its own!”

I smiled as I left the surgery
walking home via the narrow back lanes
of this little Cornish town
where you had chased me last week
in your car
nearly knocking me down
screaming and spitting like a lunatic.
I smiled because my heart is intact,
I managed to get out of your selfish web
and away from you
I lucked it and escaped
with only a small temporary disease
which like you, is really nothing at all.

© Paul Tristram 2013



Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography 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.