Sunday, September 13, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Sesquipedalianism Sucketh Testiculis of Gargantuan Proportions. 

© Paul Tristram 2015 

Poetry From The Nearest Barstool

I always loved the smell of them,
slop-trays and cigarette smoke,
joint clouds wafting in
from the beer garden door.
Women dressed up to the nines
of an evening, standing next to you
at the bar, all perfume, make-up
and spearmint chewing gum,
(Ah, that sweetness is far better
than therapy, any day of the week!)
There is no other place on earth
I have found where I can turn
around and lose a frown quicker.
The bullshit and the ridiculousness
stumbling and tumbling out of half-cut
mouths makes me sigh a happy sigh
and de-stress’s me in mere minutes.
The Pub’s a sanctuary, an escape,
a home from home, a way of life.
A welcomed bolthole from the many
different strains of everyday living.
I’m a regular, that’s where you’ll find me
but I claim no barstool with my name,
I’m a Welsh Gypsy and I squat them
all randomly and as my fancy takes me.

© Paul Tristram 2015

The Ghosts Of Rebecca’s Daughters

“Well, it’s like I was telling the other Constable,
forty years I’ve been night watchman here at the
‘Marauding Legions of Welsh Red Dragons’ Brewery
see and only twice we’ve been robbed before this.
The first by those damned Tristram’s up in Skewen
and the second by Fatty Lewis’s Twins from Swansea,
who ram-raided the canteen and stole nothing but hotdogs
in their Probation Officer’s Fiat Uno, pair of  headers.
I got involved and had a bit of a scrap on both occasions
but this new one, well, I’ve never seen anything like it,
I literally shit my pants twice in succession and I swear
I’ll be helping the wife eat her bloody valium after this.
They came in here, now see, all clever and sneaky like,
I was happily dipping a Lionel Richtea in my Glangettie
when the computer monitors went black for a few seconds
and when they came back on the main one had been
high jacked and was now playing some crazy music video
on loop, I’ve just been told by the other Constable
that it was ‘Goldie Lookin’ Chain’ from Newport
with the song ‘Your Mother’s Got A Penis’ Jesus Christ!
I nearly had a seizure on the spot, it was blaring, mun
and then the Robbers appeared on the side monitors
and that was the end of me, they were running up corridors
busting open doors and carrying barrels and beer crates.
Wearing long, old-fashioned Welsh dresses, shawls and all,
big black hats and blacked out faces, Oh My God, I realized
we’re being robbed by the ghosts of ‘Rebecca’s Daughters’
I swear, I’ve never been so frightened in all my born days,
as soon as I got over the shock enough to move myself
I hit the three nines on the blower, locked the office door
and slid the heavy desk up against it, then dove head first
into the locker cupboard out of the way like, quick sharpish.
I haven’t been a regular church goer since the mother-in-law
came to live with us ten year or so ago, but by God I prayed.
And that’s all I’ve got to tell you, the other Constable
found me half hour later because of the puddle of piss
seeping out of the bottom of the locker door and as soon
as I’m done signing this statement I’m resigning this job
they can shove their pension and gold watch sideways, mun!”

© 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
And also read his poems and stories here!

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