Paul Tristram- Three Poems

She’s Burnt Her Hair Again

All up the left-hand side of her head
and she rocks jerkily back and forth
in a mechanical mid-speed rhythm.
Dribbling chalky medication tasting spittle
carefully out of the corner of her mouth
to drop between her bare-self-harmed-knees
to add to the gob butterfly she is making
upon the grey square linoleum tile
down between her swollen, dangerous feet.
There is a Guard sat bored 4ft away
daydreaming of normal things
and wishing to be somewhere else.
It takes stamina, tenacity, patience and practice
to get the rocking motion perfect.
If she changes pitch or frequency even slightly
a cog might slip, a wheel derail
and The Fracture which dwells inside her forehead
will open up again and swallow whole
a big bunch of her ’Happy Ever After’s’

© Paul Tristram 2014

Strong When Alone

It is a Necessity,
a State of Grace and Mind,
It is the Craftsman’s Stage.
It is where the Magic flows
down Mental Rapids of Thought.
Where the Creative Cauldron
bubbles and stews away.
It is the Blank Easel,
the Backdrop,
the Clash with the Gods.
The Purging,
the Shedding,
the Chiselling Away.
The Focus,
the Discipline,
the Siamese Twin
of the Talent.
It Embraces like an Old Lover,
who’s both Good and Bad,
it is Darkness and Light
and Everything In Between.
Time alone
is the only way
Through
to the
Power of the Soul
at the Core of Yourself.

© Paul Tristram 2013

Published in  48th Street Press, Edison, New Jersey (USA) and Caracas, Venezuela, June 2014

Rum And Resin And The Strumpet Ladder

In a crookedly old midnight tavern
hidden down a dimly lit back lane
upon the seedy harbour side of town.
He slurps the double rum down
from the wooden egg-cup,
the establishment uses as shot vessels,
with a deep growl.
With a strand of straw he lights
by waving it across the tables candle
he ignites his little pipes bowl
stuffed full of Kashmir Black
and Golden Virginia Tobbacy.
He calls the barmaid back on over
with a grimaced wink and orders
another double rum and a tankard
of warm mulled wine and port,
paying with 3 of the 6 battered coins
secreted somewhere in his belt.
He quickly tucks the first one
home to bed and devours half the second
with one greedy gulp.
Hearing a door creaking open up above
and off to the right of him,
he scratches his 6 day stubbled chin
and glances upwards
at female stockinged legs descending
the rickety wooden staircase.
Finishing his drink in a second gulp,
placing his 3 pointed hat
upon his greasy ponytailed head.
He stands up and taking her grubby hand
in his own
he follows her up that Strumpet Ladder.

© Paul Tristram 2013

Published in  48th Street Press, Edison, New Jersey (USA) and Caracas, Venezuela, June 2014

Published in Thirteen Myna Birds (USA) Wednesday the 15th of October 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/