Sunday, February 1, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

A Waterfall Of Wishful Words

…is all that I have for you
and as pretty as they can be
they do not pay the bills
or keep you warm and safe.
Go find yourself
a bricklayer, car mechanic
or something else
nice and practical like that.
You are now completely free of me.

© Paul Tristram 2014


Up to a litre and half of vodka a day now
as well as the many different pills,
when she can get her greedy hands upon them.
It’s killing her, simply and literally!
But he still lives, breathes and smiles
inside of her subconscious
although it takes a ritual of beating
her senses unconscious to get there.
For years she went through life blissfully unaware
that she had lied when speaking her wedding vows,
how naïve and foolish she had been, indeed.
‘Until Death Do Us Part’ NEVER!
What a load of old tripe, she posthumously
loves and needs him now more than ever.
Letting go is for teenagers, fickle people
and for the shallow ones without proper souls.
She necks her almost full tumbler,
squishes out her cigarette and lays back down.
Even though it is now still only noon,
for 10 more minutes asleep and in his company
she would happily sacrifice another decade of life
or even let The Reaper come take her whole.

© Paul Tristram 2014

An Unseen Open Prison Door

He has boxes of things
that he can no longer look at or throw out,
far too many memories to deal with, either way.
So he’s packed and sealed them all up,
physically compartmentalized his past
with a masochistic care
which is both astounding and unhealthy.
Sits and lays amongst it all,
shaped walkways just like a house-hoarder 
(All that’s missing is the hidden cat crap
instead he’s filled that space with nostalgic bullshit!)
except his is not rubbish
it’s both sentimentally valuable and hurtful.
He’s like a stagnant Marley’s Ghost
chained and bound
to things that should no longer matter.
A pointless clock-watcher with no approaching
appointments, routines or schedules
upon the unforgiving blank horizon.
His deteriorating health
has not passed the point of no return…yet
and the Summer Sun is still shining
outside of his permanently closed curtains.
But his Daughter stopped phoning out of frustration
two years ago this coming Boxing Day.

© 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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