Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Olanzapine Heaven

Exceeding the directed dose, again
she reaches for another small pill
and swallows it down into the depths
of her grinding and squirming soul.
Washing it down with refreshing
cool, white German wine.
“There is just so much Evil to forget
and no one will ever understand!”
She whispers fidgeting uncomfortably
within the straightjacket of herself.
Soon her old boyfriend awakes
opposite in his chair and she smiles
welcoming the humorous distraction
as he babbles nonsense for a moment
or two then relapses back into sleep.
He used to be a hard, drinking man
many moons ago but now he looks
9 months pregnant, passes out drunk
after only 2 poxy cans of Strongbow
and pisses his pants like a child.
But it is always far better to be with
someone who is below you and not
above you on the slope of pathetic-ness.
In fact it is almost a tonic, she grins
as the Olanzapine starts to kick in
and she closes her eyes knowing
she’s in the safest place to be just now.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Swan Dive Into Brambles

The old Tramp came sauntering up to us
in Victoria Gardens early one evening
as we sat up by the standing stones
aged from ten to thirteen years old
drinking flagon’s of Strongbow cider.

“I’ve seen you boys being chased before
by them Bobbies on their Beat.
Find a big patch of brambles next time
and jump into them, they won’t dare
come in after you, they’ll leave you there!”
He said winking and off he went on his way.

We laughed, nodded and mentally logged it
away safely for future use and forgot about him.

It’s now years later and I am experienced
enough to inform you that the ‘Old Codger’
was about as wrong as wrong can be.
The spikes get larger and stronger and steel like
the deeper into the bramble bush you go.
So if you haven’t in fact blinded yourself
or punctured an artery with the reckless action,
they merely stand around laughing merrily
until the dog van gets there and bet money on
how long you’ll stay in there for and trust me
the dogs mind the brambles far less than you do.
If by some chance they don’t drag you out,
you now have bramble wounds and dog bites
all going untreated and festering nicely.
If you still persist in this game of self-harming,
they call in the council with petrol strimmer’s
who set about shaving away your vantage point.
All you have gained by now is an extra trip
to the hospital before the actual police station,
take my advice scale a wall or three, instead.

© Paul Tristram 2014

This Grotesque Carnival Of Twisted Souls

Sat alone upon the quiet untarnished hilltop
the Hermit watched them all thoughtfully
down in the busy Market Town below.
Grabbing, catching, snatching, stealing,
lying, crying, begging, screaming, fighting.
In and out of each others beds and business,
pockets and lives with a backdrop of cars,
bars, hostility, sleaze and wailing sirens.
He shook his head sadly and mused
“They’re lost, every single one of them!
From that 3 year old boy being slapped
by his neurotic pilled-up mother for kicking
an empty coke can up the dirty street
to that old lady in her 90’s who visits
her husbands grave every day, rain or shine.
And everyone in between them is worse,
more nasty, dangerous and psychotic
at each turn, it’s like they’re trying to
outdo each other in some horrible game.
Chasing their tails and killing each other
a little more each day until the nuthouses
are full to bursting, the prisons overcrowded
but not to worry eh, they’re already busy
working on the next batch, breeding up
a new set of dysfunctional offspring
to keep the cogs in motion every single day.
More oil for the engine, more backs for the lash.
The wild animals who live around me
have more respect, tolerance, intelligence
and balance than the lot of them put together.
Where have all of the Teachers gone?
The Delinquents have taken over completely
and are blindly scuppering their own ship?
I see no Apocalyptic Horsemen amongst them,
they’re not needed, it’s being done by themselves.
Violence in every eye, lie, tooth and nail,
Fire and brimstone in each fist, crotch and insult.
Love they neighbour with brutality until he begs
for mercy and then turn it up a notch or three.
Throw Molotov cocktail’s into domestic discord
handing each other another missile for an encore.
This Grotesque Carnival of Twisted Souls
is completely out of control and getting worse.
The whip cracking Ringmaster’s wearing
a Charles Manson mask and flashing his meat
and two veg at demented old veterans in the park.
The Schizophrenic Clowns  have taken over
and they’ve got bloody murder on their minds.
Retreat from their midst of carnage and chaos
find yourself a little hilltop out of harms way,
sit and watch the nonsense from a safe distance
It’ll take you a good year or two to calm down
and to dust off the crowd’s strangling insanity!”

© Paul Tristram 2014



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.