Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Busted

Out of shape and falling
apart at the seams,
broken toes and fingers
from cringing and wringing.
Crooked spine and mind,
a wandering knee and elbow,
a smile like chipped, spider
webbed cracked crockery.
A receding hairline to happiness,
stirring a cup of daily discontent,
seeing no way forward except
the ROT that’s inescapable.
Thought pattern working
constantly in reverse,
it’s the only way of keeping sane,
counting all those losses
REALLY means that he
once had things worth losing.
Beds down ALONE at night
in dirty bedding soaked in grief
and remembers brightly
how she smiled and danced
and loved him warm as sunshine.
Before THAT disease took her away,
leaving him home all alone,
to fumble about without mercy
in the immense darkness
of a still beating, yearning heart.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Thirsty For An Hangover

I skedaddled with a swagger through the town
with my eyes and paintbrush as bloody red
as freshly inflicted emotional stab wounds.
I did the pubs and clubs from right to left,
then left to right and back again once more,
leaving friends, acquaintances and enemies
dropping like sizzling flies in my blurry wake.
I climbed a rooftop avoiding queues, trampled
strangers underfoot and ate something not very
pleasant and greasy whilst I was still running.
I lost a coat but found myself a much better one,
avoided the Police with an almost second sense,
slid around and through Bouncers without even
slightly colliding, bribing, cajoling or arguing.
Broke up a fist fight then started two or three,
sniffed her popper bottle as I slithered passed,
bought some take-outs and a rather handsome
‘Peaky Blinders’ flat cap off  a subway busker.
Walked over to the river finally slowing down,
threw in my last pound coin and made a wish,
sat upon the bank drinking the bottle dregs,
smiling widely and waiting for her approach.

© Paul Tristram 2014

The Smudge Trick

I saw them both approaching through the crowd
and separate just up ahead then slide back in towards
their Target, which on this occasion was Me.
The one on my right lifted his lit cigarette up to his
mouth a split second before the orchestrated collision.
I stepped forward and twisted, slamming his cigarette
back into his face with my shoulder whilst grabbing
the wrist tightly of the one upon my left who was
reaching for my jacket pocket and bent it back sharply.
Both of them yelped just like little scolded puppy dogs.
I stopped and glared at both of them in silence for a
second or two until they both disappeared backwards
in different directions into the fast moving crowd.
The object of the con is: to get cigarette ash upon
your shoulder as an excuse to make physical contact
so they can apologise profusely for their own silly
clumsiness whilst innocently dusting the ash off you.
All the time that this is going on the one stationed
at the other side of you is making the pocket dip,
it’s called ‘The Smudge Trick’ and like everything
else in life choosing the wrong target can be painful.

© 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.
You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/