Paul Tristram- Three Poems

…As She Lifted The Curtain Hem Of Her Circus Dress Of Promiscuity
And Relaxed…Unfaithfully…Once Again.
(God Upturned The Table With The Cards
Which He Had Just Been Playing Patience Upon And Lost!)

…and as she set off once again, smiling
down that familiar road
of learnt behaviour/destruction.
Carefree and stupidly
heading straight towards the wreckage
that we kept pulling her free from.
We shook our heads,
surrendering to the inevitable
and turned and walked away.
After eighteen months
of destitute complaining and self-pity
she hasn’t quite learnt her lesson
but I hear that she’s at least
on her way, hooray!

© Paul Tristram 2015 

 To Imprison The Moment

I have kept that special moment here
all of this time and no one suspected.
The little miracle sent to help me
wrapped and cloaked in ancient magic.
A wonderful secret, a knowledge
that no one else (Alive!) is privy too.
The thing that keeps me protected so.
Sometimes in the very beginning
I would fear that its whispering would
alert the wrong ears in our direction
but cleverness is part of the bundle.
It gleams like a knife but only for me
and it still smells exactly like it used to.
I would share it with the lost and lonely
but it really does not fraction or multiply.

© Paul Tristram 2014

A Scab Upon The Face Of Love

He swaggered into the ballroom
dressed as a swashbuckling pirate,
bowed thrice and smiled as nearly
everyone applauded or squirmed.
She burst out of the audience
screaming like a banshee,
in the clobber of Marie Antoinette.
“You are wearing the wrong costume,
my dear heartbreaker. Yours is still
hanging by the dressing room window
upon a bloody butchers hook.
I spent days sewing it together myself,
it’s made entirely of rotting raw meat
and stinking offal, mostly pigs hearts
mixed in with the occasional arsehole.
It has your filthy name branded
with vindictiveness into the right breast,
Mr. Scab Upon The Face Of Love!”
She snarled, gnashed, kicked and clawed
whilst being dragged away backwards
down the long entrance hall of shame,
to be cast out mercilessly into the cold
Winter of snow and approaching lunacy.
Far away from the warmth of the party,
future love, respect, her class, dignity
and every sane thing she’d ever known.

© 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/