Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Cringe Binge

With pillow over head and blankets pulled up tight,
foetal position a-rocking in tune to the rhythm
of your traumatic and torturous hangover.
Wince and close the door quickly upon memories
as soon as they raise up their spiteful heads.
Stay hidden in bed for a few more hours than usual
until finding the courage to tip-toe downstairs
carefully looking over your nervous shoulder as you go.
Then turning on the computer you joyfully see
that your post on Facebook last night was actually funny,
made everyone you know laugh and got a 193 likes :)

© Paul Tristram 2014

Crazy Rhythm

It’s that wired up natural high,
the adrenalin rushing energy.
The dominoes collapsing correctly,
the cue ball smashing the 8 ball
nonsensically yet perfectly.
It’s three drinks instead of one,
swaggering in and out of the queue.
Throwing money down-               up.
                    -instead of picking it
Tunnel-visioned through the crowd,
untroubled by the emotional weather.
It’s smiling at the insane instead of because it!
The paring sharp the senses,
a cheap day return for a bullet-proof soul.
That crazy rhythm banging
like tribal drums within you
as you gear shift the night under your control.

© Paul Tristram 2015

The Timbre Of Your Voice…
Sets Fire To The Kindling Of My Soul

It’s been so very cold and dark without you,
an empty Christmas, gift-less and decorated with nothing.
The hours drag their bored wrists
across the dull razorblade of the day, again…
and again…and again…and again…and again.
I’ve drank myself sober for the 8th time this week,
I lay upon the clumsy settee listening to shapes
and counting abstracts into nonsense,
until sleep finally comes as slow as old age
across the brittle roof slates of my mind.
Almost instantly, it seems…the telephone is ringing,
I am awake and your voice is running down the line
like a Summertime Explosion of Colour and Feeling.
The furnace is up and blaring once again,
the drums of madness recede and calm down,
adrenalin and enthusiasm happily take their place
and shift it up 3 gears in a matter of as many seconds.
God Almighty is alive and the World is full of Hope,
and ‘Impossible’ is just a silly word that happens to sit
twenty words before the end of one of my poems.

© Paul Tristram 2015



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/