Paul Tristram- Three Poems

“Drunk Again?” She Asked

“Well, I swore I would never prove you wrong again,
after the last time.
I simply love you far too much, my dear!”

© Paul Tristram 2013

Lime Scale Existence

She strode in through the automatic doors,
pushing an army camouflaged buggy
with a dirty little kid in, who was busy
sucking upon the corner of a bread crust.
Walked straight up to the counter -completely
ignoring the queue- and banged loudly
upon the [Ring For Attention] service bell.
Margret the middle-aged, bored and -seen it
all before- receptionist came from behind
the half chipboard/half frosted glass partition
and with a sarcastic smile spoke thus
“Good morning and how can I help you?”

“My name is Charlotte Crampton Skankly,
and I live at 86 Meadow Road, Melyn, Neath.
There’s damp down 3 walls in the girls room,
the living room ceiling has come away in
2 corners and are hanging there precariously.
The backdoor’s still not been fixed since
Burglar’s kicked it in and robbed us 3 weeks ago.
The bath has a massive crack in the middle of it
and the kitchen taps are useless and leaking.
The people in there before me were drug dealers
and prostitutes and their clients are still knocking
upon the doors at all stupid times of the night.
I’m living a lime scale existence and I’m sick
to death of traipsing in here to tell you about it.
So yes, you can help me and you can start by
wiping that smug smirk off your face and getting
someone who can actually help me get moved!”

Margret smiled fully and banged twice upon the
little red panic button hidden under the counter
then walked leisurely back behind the partition
leaving her 2 grown-up sons the security guards
to deal with the now hysterically yelling woman.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Published in Thirteen Myna Birds (USA) Thursday
the 27th of November 2014 (Thanksgiving Day)

Evil

She came over begging a fiver until Monday
with her starving 3 year old son in tow.
She was politely told ‘No!’
So she bummed a cigarette and sat smoking
and explaining that her electricity had run out.
For the last 4 days she’d been partying hard,
drinking Jack Daniels by the bottle and speeding
with those 3 really nice guys who always
kept her company at her flat on benefits day.
Leaving the kid to tuck himself up in bed at night
with a chocolate bar bought on beer-runs.
Now being skint she was our unwelcomed visitor,
the boy was pestering my Mother in the kitchen
wanting to look in the cupboards and fridge
for treats and food stuffs, my Mother made him
a jam sandwich and he came running back in
to show his Mam, crying with real happiness
and waving it around like it was some trophy.
She lunged like a crocodile, grabbing his wrist
with force and biting the folded in half bread
right down to his fingers, leaving mostly crust.
The boy stared at his once gloriously full hand
for 2 or 3 seconds in shock and amazement then
let out an anguished, heartbroken soul scream.
He threw himself upon the floor and started
kicking and punching and crying uncontrollably
almost like he was being beaten by some kind
of invisible force, it was horrific to watch.
I looked at her sitting upon the settee ignoring
his genuine tantrum, nodding her head happily
back and fore and chewing down the boys stolen
sandwich without a single care in the world.
She had a big hooked nose just like a vultures,
yellow and green teeth that sloped backwards
rat-like and finally I spoke, loudly and with anger.
I told her to get her scrounging arse out of our
house and back over to her own side of the street
and that she was lucky that she wasn’t a man
or I’d be unleashing the violence of my temper.
And that was that, she left quickly, backwards,
pulling her still screaming, unfortunate child
with her out of our garden gate and straight
through next doors where we heard a knocking
moments later and the old couple who lived
there went quiet and pretended not to be in, again.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Published in Thirteen Myna Birds (USA) Thursday
the 27th of November 2014 (Thanksgiving Day)



 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/