Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Paul Tristram- Three Poems


I have fallen into quite a few in my time
but none of them remotely come even close
to that stinking, disgusting snake-pit of nonsense and bullshit
that you have the cheek to call a soul.

© Paul Tristram 2014


He considered The Seven Deadly Sins
merely work tools to manipulate.
Other’s displeasure and discomfort
his very own addictive pleasure.
Lies and deception were his forte,
he mentally tortured and made victims
of all of his confused acquaintances.
Laughed heartily, deep inside
at every single welcomed funeral.
Viewing heart attacks and cancer
as personal triumphs of glory.
Yet, all his cunning ruthlessness
proved useless one early evening
sat greasy-faced at the dinning table
as he choked upon a fishbone.
Purple of face and punching chest
he looked searchingly at his wife
who sat smiling in his direction.
Already happily window-shopping
the vast, crooked inheritance
with a new younger and dumber lad
upon her victorious Widow’s arm.

© Paul Tristram 2014

The Humiliation And Ruin Of A Narcissistic Karaoke Singer

“I’m gonna be a Star, Rich and Famous.
Make David Beckham leave his family
and marry me instead, you just watch.
I was born Special and I’ll come back
to this little pub in this insignificant town
and show you all, so you can Adore Me!”
She explained hurriedly and excitedly
in-between Her two predictable song choices
of Whitney Houston and Celine Dion.
It was an arrogant laugh through the sudden
rise of insults and abuse that made Her first
realize- that as perfect as She believed Herself
to be- that She had in fact made a mistake.
Revealed too much of Her Master Plan
to the common, ordinary people and it was
obviously just too much for their little,
simple minds to take in, in just one sitting.
It wasn’t Her fault Obviously but theirs,
even God made mistakes didn’t he, I mean
he invented ugly people and uglier clothing.
He had also Birthed Her into a family
without any money, power or influence
and that was a mistake almost unforgivable.
The first missile to hit Her was a large
blue, oblong, plastic ‘Fosters Beer’ ashtray,
made of the very same material as Her
black, piss-stain shallow excuse for a soul.
The second was a spinning wooden barstool
which struck Her in the chest right where
Her heart, compassion and empathy should be.
The third was a half pint of frothy urine
that one of the punk boys had concocted
at the back of the room and discharged
expertly hitting Her squarely with a fantastical
‘Smack, Bang, Wallop’ right in the kisser.
After recovering from the initial shock of it all
Her sycophantic family immediately rushed
to the rescue, taking but not giving blows,
until they managed to get Her out of a side door
and into the comfortable four door vehicle
they had previously borrowed and not returned.
They arrived home exactly three and a half
minutes later, where they closed the front patio
curtains upon the Unjust World and decided
unanimously with Her to try the National Lottery
one more time on Wednesday, even though
She was a Martyr to it each time She lost
and it took them two days to stop Her crying.
And if that did not work, they would move
further down County and start all over again.
Hopefully amongst generous, decent people
who would be supportive and give Her
all the Narcissistic Fuel that She Needed
whilst getting back nothing but Horribleness,
Coldness, Meanness and Ugliness in return.

© 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.

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

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