Tuesday, December 23, 2014

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

A Little Ode To Destruction

The dogs got a-hold of him
in the undergrowth
at the other side of the field,
upon the edge of woodland.
Stinking of petrol
whilst laughing and crying
at exactly the same time.
They let the hounds play
with him for a minute or two,
then threw him forcefully
into the back of the van.
He twisted his neck
in exertion and excitement
trying to savour each fleeting,
last glimpse of the flames
leaping lovingly out
through the upper windows
and exploding rooftop
of the derelict mental hospital
disappearing behind
and to the left.
As the van pulled out
of the muddy lane
and onto the open road
leaving the Fire Brigade
to fight his
‘Little Ode To Destruction’
It had been a good run,
he thought wickedly
to himself with delight.
13 in all and each more
magnificent than the last one.
He felt a glow of pride inside
as he reached down
to his grubby wet right sock,
removed 2 cello-taped matches,
expertly struck and set alight
to his fuel soaked trouser cuffs.

© Paul Tristram 2014

January’s Anger

She sat in the wooden shelter
overlooking Gyllyngvase Beach
in the Winter’s late afternoon.
Young and only in her thirties
but wearing a scarf around her head
like ‘old ladies do’ to protect
their freshly ‘just done’ hair
on their walks to bingo.
Yet, she was doing the opposite
Make-up thick and brilliant,
avert your ‘curious eyes’ strong,
oblong, sharp angled pretty face
both intelligent and scared.
She hummed snippets of song tunes
to herself as the cold rain lashed
against her in cruel, accusing bursts
whispering long lost fragments
of distant past conversations
“We’re all cracked plates and all that!”
After exactly 3 hours of condemning
herself to merciless element battering
she wandered slowly home
still miles and miles lost inside.
To stand steaming wet in the kitchen
peeling a pear, sobbing, transfixed
and chanting the word ‘Escape’
Endlessly, Tirelessly and Remorselessly.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Heart Smashed Black/Blood Red Dynamite

She wobbled unsteadily at the end of the bar
still wearing Saturday Night’s war paint
on a bleak and unforgiving Wednesday afternoon.
Wincing another neat whisky down
like she was double-daring suicide to show its face.
The sickly, sweet aroma of debauchery,
vulnerableness and desperate longing
which she cast off with each careless shrug
was amongst many other curious things
intriguingly intoxicating and euphoric.
She thoughtlessly looked my way
and made it worse, I mean better, No I mean both!
In an almost half barbaric growing yelp
I ordered a tray of 13 straight up  Old No. 7’s,
banged the first one home to roost
and traipsed my inebriated swagger on over.
Introduced myself with lies and cigarettes
and promised her nothing but company
upon the morrow’s battlefield of shame and uncertainty.
She bade me to a shadowy, alcove table
where we sealed the agreement with a sloppy kiss,
instantaneously becoming 24 hour ‘Partners In Grime.’

© 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/


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