Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Screaming Ceiling

I knocked upon his bedsit door,
there was a momentary cry,
a sudden rush of energy,
then he opened his cell door
with a quick, nervous hand
and a terror-struck face.
He was as white as a ghost
and sweating profusely,
without regard for himself
or rhyme or reason.
I handed him a battered
old £20 note from my small
reserve of pity and mercy
and whispered with a wink
“Pay me back on giro day!”
He showed me his 2-toothed grin,
his eyes turned a deeper colour
and went almost young again.
As he stuttered out slowly
“Thanks, you’ve saved me from
the Terror of the Screaming Ceiling!”

© Paul Tristram 2014

Daytime Depression

I see groups of them in two’s and three’s
sitting gloomily upon plastic chairs
outside of the greasy spoon in town.
The Monday through to Weekend
ante meridiem lost and lonely folk.
With not a single smile between them,
most too bitter and grouchy for church,
some with bodies broken or mentally ill.
The middle to late aged veterans of life’s
many cruel, senseless wars, now defeated.
Nicotine stained moustaches and dentures,
NHS black glasses with cello-taped arms.
Worn, worried and wrinkled grey faces
with quick fish-like darting neurotic eyes.
It’s colder huddled by that busy bus lane
drinking lukewarm, piss-weak cups of tea
than it is for the ‘Grass Arena’ old drunks
with white lightning cider, children’s cough
medicine and methylated spirits in the park.
But sometimes just a few hours of relief
out from the lonely, empty walls of grief
that some now call their home is the only
small comfort that they have recourse to.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Grey’s Yard

They beat him in a complete circle
at least seven or eight times
as he lay upon the gravelled floor
an elderly witness later claimed.
Fracturing one of his eye sockets,
breaking his nose, cheek bone, jaw,
left wrist, elbow and right ankle.
He is in intensive care right now.
The CCTV picked up eight youths
entering the lane leading to ‘Grey’s Yard’
all wearing hoodies and face scarves
and completely unidentifiable.
His girlfriend has issued a statement
to the police and local newspaper
explaining that the victim is her
new boyfriend of just three weeks.
He lives in the next county and is not
familiar with the gang scene in the area.
That he was on his way to the Spar Shop
to get some wine and cigarette papers.
It had completely slipped her mind
to warn him not to cut through there.
She had nothing to say about his attackers
or what she thought of their actions
her only response to questioning was
“Are you kidding me, I live here?”
Thirty five people have been questioned
but there are yet to be any arrests made.
The victims empty wallet has been found
fingerprint-less in a public convenience
known to be frequented by heroin addicts.
The police are waiting for the victims
coma to break so he can view mug shots
as there are no other lines of investigation
open to commitment at the present time.

© Paul Tristram 2014

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.

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