The Gutter Opens Its Arms Again
The buildings quickly tilt,
gravity has me in a stranglehold,
over I go.
Objections are for other matters.
That fucking lip
at the end of the tarmac
two inches from the curb
always gets me.
Its imprint divides my forehead.
I lay there
repentant to nothing
or no one.
Arrogant in my helplessness,
let them piss on me,
let them curse and spit.
I have just become
a father again.
© Paul Tristram 2006
Published in Inclement (Poetry For The Modern Soul) Volume 6 Issue 4, Winter 2006
I Have Fallen Foul Of Myself Yet Again
The sober sunrise lights up my face,
as the shame burns inside me like a furnace.
Eyes scared to open, delaying the inevitable,
cringes and seizures of panic.
Chest bound with anxiety like boots laced up too tight,
head ringing with future accusations.
I lay sweating with guilt, curled up and hidden,
at least for awhile from everyone but myself.
I judge my actions harshly; allow no excuses to form,
as my cowardly hand searches for any remnants
of the bottle which helped to destroy me.
Lifting up my insane reward, I at last open my eyes,
rise onto my side and drink down the sickly liquid.
Slightly sedated once more, I reach down to the floor
and pick up a half smoked roll-up.
I light up its harshness, breathe deep the smoke
and once again think seriously of my suicide.
No way or energy to commit this final act,
I fall back onto my back and tremble and shake
within the disgrace that I am.
While knowing full well, that I’ll be back in this hell,
the next time I dare tarnish the outside world
with my nervous presence.
© Paul Tristram 2008
Published in the Cat Scan Press Anthology Chapbook ‘Beer Garden Bulimia & Bullshit’ Summer 2008
Better Off Dead
Nothing good happens at three in the morning,
when you’re alone and unhappy to be alone.
Branches fall like wooden walls of bitterness.
Winds howl and scream like rape victims avenging their agonies.
Memories race home on stampeding horses.
The clock scowls and curses, second after second.
The darkness is there like the law,
crucifying all that isn’t correct and in its place.
It’s a wonder we survive the wee hours
with their twisted imagery and their hollow, silent laugh.
We who dwell in this labyrinth solitude,
floating down canals of discomfort which dwell within ourselves.
It’s a test without purpose; it’s a game without fun to play.
It’s a time for counting our losses.
It’s a time when sod all can be thrown away.
Who envies us, the lost and the wounded?
Who envies us, with our souls shipwrecked long ago?
Hope died a thousand deaths many seasons past.
Love, well, love isn’t even worth talking about,
it’s shaming to think such nonsense once fooled and tricked us so.
Why dance like a baboon to happiness,
if happiness is happy to watch you dance like a baboon?
There’s a certain safety and comfort in negativity,
for your negativity will not let you down.
Well, it’s nearly the end of another night of nothing.
Time for laying the ghosts inside your head to bed.
To awake sometime towards the end of the strange sunshine.
to once again repeat all that has just been said.
© Paul Tristram 2008
Published in The Cat Scan Press Anthology Chapbook ‘Raise The Bones!’ Spring 2008
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 http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.
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