Monday, June 22, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

As I Flushed Her Away

As I flushed her away
I wept
She’d never understand

© Paul Tristram 2010

Dewberry Girl

I was drinking beer and cider all day long
and a bottle of whisky at night.
I would lay down and drift into a coma, alone
but always awake with her draped around me.
Before I’d even open my eyes I’d smell dewberry,
I suppose it’s quite a nice fragrance in moderation
but she had no gauge and practically
sheep dipped herself in the stuff.
Of course, I was waking up with the biggest
hangovers in The Valleys, of apocalyptic proportions
and that sickly, sweet stench
was like a Dr Marten to both the stomach and senses.
She wasn’t even my girlfriend?
I didn’t have a steady one at the time,
she just used to appear wherever it was I woke up,
a friends settee, my Mother’s parlour,
that concrete tunnel down in the park.
It was like some kind of curse or punishment,
she didn’t understand ‘Go Away…it’s not reciprocal’
in polite terms or by shouting and swearing.
Eventually, I had a one night stand with her older sister,
this was all back in the early ‘90’s
and apparently she’s bought her sister a bottle
of dewberry every year on the anniversary of it, since.

© Paul Tristram 2015

She’s Ordered Another One Through The Post

“Well, have you seen the cowing state of it,
she’s pushing it around in a pram and everything,
bold as brass and without a care in the world,
I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, mun
and I used to be the Seven Sisters village bike
before I was all married, sober and respectable!”

“Where’d you see her, what does it look like?”

“Tesco’s in Neath Abbey, doing a bit of shopping.
Like a kids doll only a bit more real looking
only not like a real baby more like something
that looks like a real dead baby only not quite.
I don’t know, it’s weird, creeped me right out,
I had a quick nose and then legged it from there,
I was with our Becky, she smoothed it’s cheek
and said ‘aww, ain’t it cute’ the daft bugger.
You know what she said, I swear to God and all,
may the Lord strike me down dead on the spot
‘Careful you don’t wake her, I’ve just got her to sleep”

“You’re fucking joking ain’t you, she’s a psycho,
I’ve heard Phyllis has banded her from bringing it
to Bingo, right and all, there’d be riots, wouldn’t there.
You can’t go strolling into a room full of real mothers,
ones who’ve had miscarriages with that carry on,
fucking Bint should be locked up not humoured for it!”

“Aye, hark at you mind, I’m starting to feel like that.
But that ain’t the sodding best of it, there’s more,
she told Shaz from Skewen by Victoria Gardens earlier
that she feels sorry for her being an only child
and has changed her mind and decided to have twins.
She’s only ordered another creepy fucker through the post,
On my life, it’s starting to get very scary ‘round here!”

“A couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, that one,
there’s a bed with her name on it up at Cefn Coed,
Fucking F-Ward she should be, not walking the street
with that monstrosity and mixing with normal folk.
I never did like her, mind you I don’t like anyone,
always looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth
and those eyes, like they’ve never shed a single tear,
they should bring back hanging and have done with it!”

© 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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