Sunday, March 8, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

“I’m So Hungry For Sanity…That I’m Starving!”

…said the Homeless Man,
sat in the rain soaked doorway
as I hurried on by.
I sighed, stopped, pulled out
all the coppers from my pocket
and handed them to him saying
“I can help feed your belly
but not your mind, mate!”
Then replacing my frown,
I quickly walked away.
My Dog had only just died,
and I guess that some days
just fucking suck for all of us.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Atlas Apathy

She closed her weary eyes
and stuck a pin in a map,
it landed in the middle of the ocean.
She tried again and it struck
a lonesome mountaintop.
“Once more for luck!”
she cackled to herself
nearly choking upon
the unfamiliar sensation of humour.
The pin found home
in the depths of a forest.
She cast both toys of chance
aside with an honest, disheartened sigh
and sat back musing in her emptiness.
I have a Council Flat,
a Chair and a Single Bed,
Portable TV and Radio.
A Gas Fire, 3 Radiators,
Hot & Cold Running Water,
a Toilet and 2 Sinks.
A Cooker, a Hoover, a Microwave
and a Benefits Cheque
every other Monday Morning.
Sometimes it is Wrong
to build up unreachable Hopes.
It’s time I Unpacked
my Imaginary Suitcase of Wishes
and Stopped fooling Myself
for I am Not really going Nowhere.

 Paul Tristram 2015

You Did This Because You Love Me?

Grinding the disgust between her teeth,
wringing the heartache from her furious fingers.
Rivulet cheeks burning anger molten,
half-hatched thoughts of impossible escape
cringing upon the wing and smashing into laughing walls!
like bullfinches & yellowhammers & pied wagtails
straight into the jaws of Adulterous alley cats.
The insidious snakes of her mind squirm desperately
eating hollow the ‘Peace Of’ that once lived
and danced like a Naïve Fucking Fool there.
Screaming won’t bring the Bastard back
and knives are a furlong at least, in the wrong direction
from this ever ending in anything but more wretchedness.
Oh, it’s busy here within my shattered heart,
a hornet’s nest of despicable icicle tears.
Almost levitating with a rage orgasmic and terrible in its thunder.
I’d rip my damned womb out if I could and hunt you down like vermin
and beat and smother some sense and fairness and terrible justice
into your unfathomable selfish, soulless un-pity, with that mockery
which taints your pupils, green, purple and raven black
with cancer and death of all gone hope and lost beauty, you animal.

© 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!

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