Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Azure Lure

For Fourteen long years now
he has watched the changing
Seasons come and go
through a Prison Cell Window.
The Azure Skies of Summer
Torment him the most,
it is then that he feels
his Damned Soul cry inside.
‘There is just so much to do
out there, so much to see,
so much to Feel and Experience.
But never for me, no more!
Instead I let a Different
kind of Azure Lure me
into a Violent, Murderous Trap
of Betrayal, Revenge and Cruelty.
All that I Achieved in the End
was to Free Her from Madness
whilst Condemning Myself,
Completely, to a Life Wasted’

© Paul Tristram 2014

The Dance Of The Tarantula

Under sour milk moon and shivering stars
she descends the silky, sticky cobwebbed ladder
with beady little narcissistic eyes
aglow with mischief and murder.
Stepping down with a slow swagger
onto the windowsill terra firma
and delightedly crushes across the carpet
of empty husks and shell skeletons.
Made from wonderful ex-victims,
bluebottles, houseflies, butterflies and moths
all now deliciously drained and digested.
A joyous graveyard of limbs and wings
fracturing and dusting to bits and pieces
beneath her delicate yet authoritative size 8’s.
She twirls in a giddy trance of evil euphoria
for a delightful minute or two,
exhilarated by the snap, crackle and pop
emanating from the carnage below her.
Then after building up a torturous appetite
she starts scaling upwards
into the deep, morbid shadows once more.
Towards the upside down, partially fluttering,
begging, desperate, tasty morsel
bound, gagged and awaiting vampiric surgery.

© Paul Tristram 2014

The Libertine’s Little Black Book

Tumbled out of his sleazy overcoat pocket
one dark, damp Winter’s night
and lay there waiting and glowing in mischief.
The next morning a Nun named Chastity
stumbled upon it by the fountain in the market square
where it called out in a throbbing half-silence.
It was wearing an old cracked, fleshy type cover
and as she stooped to pick it up
a dark coldness seeped into her gentle fingertips
and started swarming up both of her arms.
Her once serene head instantly filled to the brim
with crying, screaming and bestial moaning,
whilst nostrils and taste buds flooded and swamped
with alcohol, smoke and many other unfamiliar
shades of foul, unpleasant wickedness.
Her soul started wretching and coming loose
from its fixings until she threw back down the book
to the ground with a ‘God Almighty’
and all the Angelic Faith she could muster.
She cringingly shook the darkness back out
from her fingertips as she hurriedly ran away,
leaving the laughing book to await
a less challenging route back home to its Master.

© 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!

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