Paul Tristram- Three Poems

No English Settlers

When I was a young boy and we drove from Neath to Swansea
there was ‘No English Settlers’ painted in big white letters
on a wall by the Docks, on the left hand side of the road.
It was just as you approached The City and all the adult men
in the vehicles in front and behind would wind down their windows
and gob at the middle word with as much force as they could muster.
I used to be mesmerised by this strange-now forgotten-ritual
and often found it to be far more interesting than whatever it was
that we were going there for in the first place, to be perfectly honest.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Noisy And Refractory Ward

She prefers to work the nightshift,
the 2am to 4am hours are her favourite.
When the Banshees’ howling’s
have disintegrated down into
sorrowful sobs and mumblings.
Bed shackles and straightjacket binds
are no longer being fought against
by neurotic sinew and argumentative bone,
but convulsing in a gentler manner.
When the sleeping drafts and knockout elixirs
have been doubled, at least
and beating their victory drums rhythmically
and almost softly over the temporary defeat
and withdrawal of the many hoards of Demons
involved in Insanity’s daytime onslaught.
She likes the Noisy and Refractory Ward
best over the Lower Risk buildings
for paradoxically it’s the quietest and calmest
in the almost blissful wee work hours.
Also, she loves, the single locked rooms
instead of the constantly restless dormitories
for it gives her a dimly lit corridor all to herself,
to dance, skip and pirouette whilst doing her rounds.
And there’s a solitary desk at the very end,
equipped with a lamp, keys, panic alarm
and besides the register, ink pot and blotting paper
are her very own three books, consisting of
her journal, sketchbook and last but not least
the one for her deranged rhymes and insane poetry.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Schadenfreude And Freudenschade

Schadenfreude and Freudenschade
watched bitterly as everyone else enjoyed life’s party.
When the rains came they clasped each others arseholes,
feeding more hungry coins into the ridiculous
arcade of Natural withering.
‘The decent thing to do’ passed them by, completely
like encyclopaedias to fish.
Green and keen for blameless murder
they both took another hit of envy and hatched
(In a Richard Burton voice!)
foul plots against their own pathetic souls.
The root of their stem is rotten,
a bird-less sky un-litters their narcissistic view point,
black is white and to be stabbed with vindictiveness
on all terrains in their twisted worlds.
They would have burnt these traitors to decency years ago
but karma is a cruel lover
at night they twist alone (Physically or not? They are always alone!)
in sweating, guilty bedsheets of self-doubt and cringing loathing.
There is no discipline to cowardice,
only a frustrated temper tantrum misconstrued as wit,
pity them not and like vomit on the pavement, avoid getting too near.

© 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/