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/1943170096
‘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/
Struggling With Alcoholism With You
The day is different now.
It’s just not funny anymore.
Rhythm and pitch have changed
and that crazy desperation is gone.
You spoilt my outlaw fun
with smiles and gentle caring.
Unclouded my messed up head
and I have never felt so ill before.
© Paul Tristram 2016
The Knife Grinder
“Sarge, we have a Mr. Joe Pickering
down at the front desk
and he claims that he wishes to become
a future witness in the identification
of our very own Jack The Ripper.”
“What’s that…is he clairvoyant,
nuts or is this a complete wind-up?”
“Well Sir, he says he’s the Knife Grinder
over on Petticoat Lane…”
“Oh, it just gets better and better!”
“…he says for 2 bob a week
he’ll keep his eyes peeled,
swears he knows the door number,
street name and face of every knife
he serves on his patch…
it’s only 2 bob sir,
I thought it was worth a shot?”
“I thought you were pulling my pisser
there for a minute, young Hawkins.
Send him up and I’ll have a quick word
with this clever little swine!”
© Paul Tristram 2015
That’s Not A Temper? ... This Is A Fucking Temper!
It was like a bomb going off, apparently.
A small greasy spoon in a side street
just off the main drag,
packed to the brim with
11am shoppers.
They were smack bang in the middle
when he didn’t so much arise but erupted,
growing sasquatch size in seconds.
The unbelievable noise that came out
of his bellowing mouth was horrifying.
Like a terrified, hunted horse
sliding through mud into barbed wire.
The unsuspecting audience
flew, fell and stumbled out of their seats
causing a rippling, domino effect around them.
He had her by the throat with such force
and concentration that his own face looked burnt.
In the ensuing confusion and cuffuddle
no one called the police until later.
He was set upon killing her,
murder in his demented eyes
and an evil sharks snarl livid beneath them.
No one but OAP’s and mothers with babies
around them… helpless and awful and agony.
It was the manager who saved her,
he come running from out the back
and panned him good and proper
twice over the bonce with a skillet.
Damned near caved his head in completely,
he died in hospital a few days later,
the poor woman is still sectioned up on F-Ward.
There’s no moral to this here story,
it’s just a little snapshot, if you will,
from the ordinary, everyday streets of Great Britain.
© Paul Tristram 2016
