Friday, January 23, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

She’s Shotting Again

In and out of bovver, razor taxing’s and strife.
Back lane traipsing the arse-end of the High Street.
Hoody up, tweaking and on a mission, completely.
Swallowing down another nervous-eyed gulp
of panic and determination.
Fluid and rattling like a regurgitated castanet.
Itching like an abscess and sweating
like the heavy ceiling of a police cell.
She swerves the rubbish binned corner, neurotically
out of the view of CCTV cameras,
up the tooth filling, shaking fire escape
to jaded sanctuary, counting greasy money
down the gang-graffitied, prostitute-ridden hallway.

© Paul Tristram 2015

A Punch Settled Him

“Hey, that guy over there in the corner
is sleeping sitting upright
and dribbling into his own lap.
I though you didn’t allow people in here
that drunk, I feel cheated?”

“Don’t be so soft, it’s not like that.
He’s a stranger, here with the travelling fair.
He was alright for a couple of hours
drinking with everyone, we all quite liked him,
swears like a trooper but really funny
in a rough around the edges kind of way.
That is, until Tommy Glassjaw came in
offering him a Black Sambuca drinking challenge.
They both did 10 each, straight down
and then started brawling, matey pulled a knife
and I had to punch him in the back of the head
with my antique clothes ‘sad iron’ to quiet him.
We’re waiting for him to awake, to check he’s ok?
Hoping that he remembers nowt at all,
tell him he fell over and give him a free beer
before closing up for the night and calling it a day.
Or he’ll be back ‘round here with those fair people,
with their hatchets, machetes and meat cleavers
and we certainly don’t want that now, do we?”

© Paul Tristram 2015

The Voyage Of The Voyeur

Up the well-worn, rickety old attic stepladder
deep into the darkened cobwebbed depths
of his decrepit, perverted, sickening lust.
Resting momentarily to eyesight adjust,
then scurrying onwards to the left-
like a disgusting sexually aroused rat-
along the carefully laid stolen scaffolding planks,
straight as the crow would fly if so inclined.
Through the first of the 18 holes he has burrowed
through the partitioning and unthought-of walls
of this unsuspecting roof topped terraced street.
Yet, he does not even flinch or think to spider-off
to look through the 5 peepholes of No.2
which he is just, at this moment,  trespassing over,
besides it was Sharon’s turn twice last month.
Nor, does he pay any mind to the next 15 properties
that he rapidly and easily tight-ropes across.
No, he is focused in his unpleasant shenanigans
and has only young Mary living at No. 18 squirming
pornographically through his rancid, repulsive mind.
He saw her with a group of collage friends
out buying new underwear in Marks & Sparks
this very morning, he could smell and almost
taste them individually as he slimily walked on by.
Upon finally reaching his discrete destination
he manoeuvres himself over to the bathroom hole,
uncorks it with trained fingers and dribbling lips.
Carefully takes the small indecent rucksack
containing a cushion, sandwiches, porn mags
a flask of Bovril and two dirty yet washable rags
from off his twisted, lizard-like, evil back.
Silently and mischievously chuckles, wickedly
rubbing his bony, wrinkled, calloused hands.
He makes himself as comfortable as he can do
and perched like a vulture up to no good, he awaits.

© Paul Tristram 2015 

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!


No comments:

Post a Comment