Rhyming My Relapse
There is no Perhaps only Collapse in Relapse.
© Paul Tristram 2015
Battles-End
I sat in the front row of Truro Crematorium
with His Daughter and His Parents.
It was me who’d told His Folks
about two weeks back, on a dark, still night.
I had knocked upon Their door
carrying news in my mouth
as heavy as hammer and anvil
to break both Their pensioners hearts.
(Parents should not bury their own children,
it should always be the other way around!)
The Mother looked liked I’d stabbed Her,
the Father didn’t understand at first,
She had to explain a couple of times
before He put his pork pie salad to one side
and mumbled “I’m not really hungry now”
They Both thanked me before I left,
‘Much better it was one of His friends
than two big, burly policemen came a-knocking,
giving the neighbours something to gossip about!’
And now here We All were listening
to the preacher say that His battles were at an end.
They were about to cremate my Mate,
the one and only ‘Insane Guy From Upstairs’
and I couldn’t wait to leave the building
and get back into town to that side-street pub
so I could say my goodbyes in my own way.
© Paul Tristram 2015
Where Robert Is Then?
Back when I was a teenager
there was this boy the same age
who lived a few doors away.
He went to a special school
not because he was retarded
but because he was born feral.
We’d see him and the only thing
he’d say was “Where Robert Is Then?”
referring to his older brother
and we’d just shake our heads.
He’d spend every night in between
the Neath Canal and River hunting
rabbits with his whippets and lurchers.
I guess he was one of those few people
who didn’t fit into society at all
but didn’t want to fight it either,
would rather be off doing his own thing.
Until one day he hit someone
in the forehead with a golf club
and apparently yelled “Four!”
I saw him in Cefn Coed
Psychiatric Hospital a few weeks later
while I was in doing a Detox.
Walking the halls after midnight,
dog-less and alone, like a ghost,
wishing for freedom once more.
But the Establishment had him
in its Teeth now and would not
be letting go, they shipped him off
to somewhere much more darker
and permanent very soon after.
© 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.
Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.
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