Tuesday, October 13, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Bollocks To Brainwaves

Bollocks To Brainwaves
Brainwaves Are Bollocks!

© Paul Tristram 2010

The Fortnightly Forestry Festival

It’s the Wednesday of Benefits week
on the old, disused railway embankment
at the foot of Upper Felons Forest.
And though it’s raining cats and dogs again
there’s happy toothless smiles upon faces
and Springtime and Summer a-courting
in each normally lost and lonely heart.
Jeff and Dave from the old air-raid shelter
up on argument hill, Karen and Tinker
from the lower fields horsebox and Jimmy,
Percy and Dai Knuckles from the tin sheet
mansion tucked away in those gorse bushes.
Are already busy collecting wood and kindling
ready for tonight’s campfire celebrations.
It was Betty Black-Eye and John The Tealeaf’s
turn to cash the money and taxi those beautiful,
bountiful, clinking supplies back to the Site.
They were both cheered off over an hour
and half ago with a few lines of the old classic
“Oh Ruby…go take those Giro’s to town!”

© Paul Tristram 2015

Fuck Sherlock Holmes (You’re Having A Tin Bath, Ain’t Ya, Me Old Mucker?)

I was sat in my bedsit with the door wide open,
letting the Springtime breeze blow through
when in walked Chrissy The Villain
drinking his 3rd can of Super Tennent’s
at 11:30 am on a bright Giro Day morning.
He stopped dead in his tracks, removed his smile,
pointed to my coffee table and hissed
“What the fuck is that piece of shite doing in here?”

It was the complete Sherlock Holmes I was reading
“It’s a good book, haven’t you ever tried it?”

“Nah, fuck that mate, I only ever read porn mags,
and anyway, he’s Old Bill ain’t he, for fuck sake,
I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole, he’s top Filth!”

“He’s fictional you pleb, it’s not real Police!”

“Oi! I don’t care if he’s frigid, what’s his sex life
got to do with it anyway? He’s Plod, Scotland Yard,
it was him who nicked The Kray Twins weren’t it?”

“Sir Arthur Conon Doyle wrote it, I’m telling you!”

“Nah, fuck off, that Doyle bloke’s not real,
he’s a type of waistcoat or a pipe tobacco, innit,
you’re winding me up, everyone knows it mate.
Sort yourself out Pauly, it’s a good job that none
of the Lads are here to see this, think of your reputation
and your family, your father would turn over in his grave!”

© 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/1326241036
And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope
at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204

You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

No comments:

Post a Comment