Friday, May 22, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Unique As Ever And Very Clever

I watched the way her fingers
worked magic and perfection
into completely
controlled craftsmanship.
I was in absolute awe
just like everyone else watching.
When she finished
and the spell broke,
she glanced at us applauding,
blushed a ‘thank you’
and beautifully smiled,
before humbly walking away.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Hell Cometh Closer

They dragged her in backwards
by the wrist restraints.
Lifted her long, soiled skirts
(She always wore two of them,
one to protect herself from temptation
and the other to keep out The Devil!)
and stuck the needle into her right arse cheek.
As she thrashed her long, unkempt, black hair
around in a whipping motion
screeching a dragged out “N-N-N-O-O-O!”
and hissing and spitting like a deranged wildcat.
One of the arresting officers present
stepped to one side, avoiding a flying splash
of saliva just in the nick of time
and shouted impatiently and with disgust
“Marion, every single drop of that dirty shit
that touches me, my co officers
or any of the nurses present
who are doing their job and trying to help you,
will be classed as an individual assault.
You should have kept up with your medication,
you can’t keep running into Gloucester Cathedral,
flashing your tits to the horrified tourists
and attacking the priests whilst yelling
‘Hell Cometh Closer’ as if it’s their fault.
Now calm the fuck down and go to sleep, please!”

© Paul Tristram 2015

Shivering Under The Sun/Melting Under The Moon

Disjointed and out of place for weeks now,
everywhere a rose patch except right here.
Echoes and hiccups of false prosperity
will not breadcrumb a crooked path
back to anywhere but unhelpful nostalgia.
The reckless gamble was only disguised as a game,
the arms of the Almshouse remain invisible to winners.
The ‘bargain section’ does not inspire confidence,
the ‘broken and damaged corner’ far less so.
The lessons there are easily won but far harder to swallow
and reinforce themselves daily
like toothache and six am roadwork’s grinding forever
outside the window of your sleepless quarters,
long after you have received the message and choked
a thousand times upon the brutal, stark point of it all.
Night time is just another colour,
for darkness is a feeling
and no stars pierce or brighten
that inward, brooding stretch of sky. 
The wealth of experience is oftentimes bought
with chunks of innocence and miles of childhood smiles.
Life is sometimes Victory, often times Defeat
but mostly the swirling, unsure currents that River the In Between.

© 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.

Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at
And also read his poems and stories here!

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