Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Poaching Lovers

It is the only thing that makes him smile
especially since his reflection’s started to age.
Yet, it is all just a cruel front.
The meanness is as real as dogshit
but the coolness he once owned
has began fading and become instead
a coldness which has seeped into his bones
and spirits and left him helpless when alone,
to rock himself neurotically asleep
with heavy heart and glistening cheek.
The SCARS they CARVED
into his vulnerable childhood mind
SHINE in NEON
when everyone else’s backs are turned.
Which, in turn, makes him crumble,
pitifully down onto his desperate knees.
Unless of course, he has used his ‘trick’
found someone new and naïve to prey upon,
lie too and destroy slowly, piece by piece.
For then he has someone else’s ROT
to focus on and temporarily replace
the massive burden of his OWN repulsive soul.


© Paul Tristram 2014



Arrogance Is Such A Slippery Slope…But I Like It!

“Arrogance is such a slippery slope…but I like it!”
he muttered in a melodically low half-whisper.
Whilst staring carefully into a large wall-hanging
‘Absinthe’ advertisement barroom mirror
and polishing his Anarchy Symbol engraved
silver upper left lateral incisor, delicately
with the corner of a burgundy and black paisley cravat.
Then spinning his debauched, battered Victorian top hat
up from barstool top and onto his half-drunken head,
replacing brass knuckles and both mother of pearl
pillboxes into waistcoat pockets, he slips on his ebony
crushed velvet tailcoat and smiling a sweet ‘Nos Da’
to the other patrons of this dilapidated drinking house
with a sweep of his right hand he flips the solid steel rod
walking cane from floor to underarm he strode on out
through the tavern door which one of the street corner
girls in his company was sleazily holding a-jar for him.
After 4 or 5 minutes of silence a bald, beer bellied
middle-aged man tentatively glanced around and spoke.
“Jesus Christ, that Guy gives me the willies, can we
have the football on the box now, Shadwell are playing?
I would have said something earlier only I was here
the very last time he brought his knives out of hiding!”


© Paul Tristram 2014



Like A Train Ran Over My Soul
And All The Ambulances In The World Blew Up Applauding It

It had just stopped raining, a few days before Christmas
5:30 in the afternoon, freezing cold and already dark.
I stepped out of the warm pub –where I was waiting
for her to finish up the last bits of festive shopping-
to smoke a small cigar and collect my rambling thoughts.
And there he was, ragged and destitute, sitting in the
doorway of a Property Agents a mere 3ft or so away,
the irony of it was like a big, fat slap in the senses.

“You haven’t got a spare light there have you, buddy?”

I handed him my box of ‘England’s Glory’ matches
and when he had finished using 2 of them to light
a dog-end which was no longer than my little fingernail
I told him to keep the box and we started to converse.
He told me that everyone called him Jesus and that he
had been on the road for 6 Winters this coming January.
I asked him what had gone wrong to make that happen?
He merely winced, shrugged his shoulders and replied

“It was just like a train ran over my soul and all the
ambulances in the world blew up applauding it!”

I took out my wallet and handed him a crisp £20 note,
told him not to spend it all on food and then asked
him if there was anything else that I could do for him?

“You’ve already done more than you can possibly know,
you’ve given me one free night safe away from the wolves
and that desperate 12 hours is sometimes just enough!”
Then he rose, bowed and swaggered off deeper into town.


© 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/