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
You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.
It is the only thing
which truly touches my soul
other than tenderness.
Stirs up emotions
like a long hoped for
Whether jumping on high,
spinning circles on one foot
with a whisky bottle
in your crazy, raging hand.
Or simply chilling the fuck out
upon your hashish back
making strange patterns
with the artexted ceiling.
It’s the second best
that you could wish for
(The first’s a sawn-off shotgun!)
It’s the springtime melody
of falling in sweet love
and when that coin gets flipped,
it’s also the war dance needed
to get yourself up and over it.
© Paul Tristram 2015
For Fuck Sake! When Is My Naivety Going To Just Go Away?
She came crashing through
the ‘not opening quick enough’ door
of Therapy Room 3b.
And literally fell over herself
in a clear part of the corridor,
giving herself a stunning crack
and linoleum welt upon
the left side of her frowning forehead.
Scrambling clumsily and frantically
to her feet it actually looked like
she was wrestling something invisible?
She finally composed herself
by screaming through the shudders.
Then approaching the partially open
office window she declared
in a mad, manic rush
“You need to breech me.
I would rather be back in prison…
this bloodletting isn’t fixing nothing.
It’s just feeding the fucking thing
that’s eating me from the inside out!”
© Paul Tristram 2016
Just Your Standard Heartbreak
Cider McPasty guided me carefully down
the dark embankment to the wooded area
between the old railway lines and the river.
Where we came upon two small campfires
surrounded by dirty, suspicious faces.
“There are twenty of us here at the last count,
all with varying degrees of mental illness.
None actually taking the medication allowed us
because of that ‘phone between 8:30 and 9am’
bollocks… they’ve stopped walk in appointments.
It’s hard to get homeless people organized,
repeat prescriptions get wet, damaged and lost.
Being well, level and mentally healthy
seems to be a luxury and a privilege these days.
Anyway, as you can see, the blankets, pillows,
sleeping bags and tar poling will be a godsend!”
Just as I was about to take my leave
after counting heads and furrowing my brow,
a piercing shriek from across the river
made me almost leap out of my own skin.
Several more cries echoed the first
and then a chorus of bestial howling followed.
I turned concerned to my temporary companion
who just shook his head wearily and explained
“That be ‘Just Your Standard Heartbreak Camp’
stay away from over there, you can’t help them.
They’re barely even human anymore,
they’ll have your eyes out as soon as look at you
and they can dement the flesh down to the bones
quicker than a lake full of rats and piranhas.
You can survive with a broken mind
but the heart (Bastard thing that it is!)
is a different stinking kettle of fish all together.
You notice how we all cross ourselves
and then look away… scared that it’s catchy, see.
If there’s a hell upon earth it’s situated over there
and once you’ve added your own voice
to that damned chorus there be no coming back!”
© Paul Tristram 2016