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 books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope
at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.
In The Infamous Beggar-Patched Slut (Pub Name)
It was in the backroom of this Notorious Establishment
where the Borough’s Villains congregate,
helping to add a touch more darkness
and sense of mischief to the shadowy gloom.
That a heated discussion about an
‘Antique Rustic Hunting Blade’
exploded into violence
quicker than you can say ‘Snap, Crackle & Blackeye’.
There is nothing upon this ‘Good For Nothing Earth’
as Treacherous, Merciless and Dangerous
as a Pickpocket with a knife
but fourteen of them armed to the rotten teeth
with belt buckles, coshes and strop razors is pure Horror Show.
By the time ‘Plod’ turned up on the scene,
reputations had been augmented,
silences bought with menace,
stolen property…stolen,
Chelsea smiles awarded generously.
But as for hard evidence…you’re having a tin bath, mate,
if you heard anything but
uncorroborated rumours and unsubstantiated half whispers.
© Paul Tristram 2016
I Love Myself For Hating You
As I shuffle your un-pretty lies
through my murderous fingers
(Like slamming bullets into a chamber!)
readying myself for another night
of mental solitaire
to abstract my solitary drinking.
I laugh insanely,
sounding like someone darker
and far more distant
at a splash of piss or beer upon my boot.
(No, it’s not that…I haven’t wanked
since the Summer ended!)
And the metal upon metal grinding
starts its slow toothache waltz
within my butchered psyche once again.
If there was an Entrance there must be an Exit?
I waste the bleak midnight oil
until cold, grey morning appears.
Banging out the blue flame
with an imbecile palm.
Which refuses to let go of your treachery
for just like my hatred
it’s the only thing about you with longevity.
© Paul Tristram 2016
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