Not As Ugly
I am not as ugly as
The way you are looking at me.
The way you are looking at me.
© Paul Tristram 2010
Girls Get Pregnant To Have A Home
She walked into the living room of her sisters
where we were all sitting, stinking of dewberry
and proclaimed with a smile
“I’m 3 months pregnant!”
“Cool.” I replied with a pound sign grin.
“Where’s your dull boyfriend?”
“Oh, he’s parking the car, he’ll be in in a minute.”
“Right, I’m nipping into town to get piss sample tubs
off Rhiannon, I want 20 samples from you tonight,
start drinking lots of water. I’ll give you 50 notes
for each of them bar one because your bloke
still owes me amphetamine money from last week.”
“But, I feel a bit funny selling you my piss,
are you really sure about all of this palaver?”
“Hell yeah, 20 un-impregnated girls are going
into the Doctors tomorrow with your samples
and leaving with ‘I’m Pregnant Doctors Letters’
from there they’re going to the Council Offices
to put their names on the housing waiting list,
even though some of them are married they’ll
claim otherwise because single pregnant women
shoot straight to the top of the waiting list.
They’ll be in that hostel in the Cimla by a fortnight,
guaranteed a house or flat by the end of 3 months
and I bet you every single one of them will then
miraculously end up having a miscarriage together!”
© Paul Tristram 2015
Saving The World And Getting The Girl, Since 1970
I’ve had my ups and downs like any man
but I’m still here, kicking and screaming
against the insane grain of it all.
Shining like lightning across
the otherwise mundane skies.
Bouncing blasphemously
from one bit of bother to the next.
Always sharpening my teeth
on complicated experience.
That crazy rhythm flowing through my veins
and an ‘Outside Of The Box’ attitude, always.
The Gypsy, The Traveller, The Rover’s friend.
Recklessly knife-edge running
yet in it for the long haul.
At one with Nature, both Human and Countrified.
Cheekily defiant and ‘Mastered’ by no one.
I refuse to stay still long enough
to keep you company watching the grass grow.
Mapping the seedy midnight back lanes of Soho,
scaling the Abyss of the Soul
and searching for Magic
whilst others fit-in safe, warm and comfortable,
barely aware that their bodies are even breathing.
© 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! http://paultristram.blogspot.
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