Sunday, July 26, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Time I Shamelessly Used Christopher Lee’s Death
As A Promotional Vehicle For My Poetry

It was a stone cold stroke of Narcissistic Genius,
I beat every other opportunist
by a longshot, to the front.
With razor sharp unfeeling wit
combined with electric shock, insensitive charm.
I crashed through those doors of common decency
with a Majestic and Megalomaniacal ‘Tra-da!’  
I crowd-surfed the Nation’s mourners,
one hand on Gloriously, palpitating chest bone,
T’other beseeching the tumultuous Heavens above.
I Hammered my Ode to the coffin lid of Horror,
then rammed My stake straight through its heart.
(Breaking off two Exquisitely sculptured nails
in the Magnificent process…Oh, how I suffer for My art!)

© Paul Tristram 2015

Anarchy, I Tell Thee!

My Aunty Nelly & Betty were sisters,
never married and not a child between them,
far too sensible, I guess?
I used to go ‘round there as a boy in the ‘80’s
whenever I wanted a bit of peace and quiet
and a plate of expensive food and treats.
They were Dear Old Sweethearts, the pair of them,
always calm, smiling and contented
except when the news came on of an evening
on one of the three channels on the TV.
My Aunty Nelly would shake her head
whilst looking over at me and say
“Here we go again mun, you just watch now!”
My Aunty Betty would stare at the screen
like a falcon searching the undergrowth for prey
until the dreaded ‘Iron Lady’ appeared.
Then she’d turn beetroot, sit rigid in her seat,
raise and shake her fist in the air and roar
“That Fucking Thatcher…The Bitch!
ooooh, I could throttle her with my bare hands.
There’ll be Anarchy, I tell thee…my lad
and it can’t come around quick enough, neither!”
I’d smile affectionately, it was the only time
that I ever heard that Wonderful Woman swear.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Shits & Giggles

They are both seventy four years old,
have two alcoholic sons
in their late forties
whom he can still drink under the table.
She’s had four heart attacks
but still chain smokes roll-ups
and drinks whisky straight up and down.
He’s in the pub everyday
from noon until three
come Hell or high-water,
where he refuses to help the barmaids
with their crossword puzzles,
claiming it interferes with his drinking
and if he arrives home sober
his poor wife would only worry.
They still play ‘Strip Jack Naked’
every Friday evening
with the curtains wide open,
to give the young passers-by an eyeful.
Their Golden Wedding Anniversary
was last year in the Autumn,
they had both male and female strippers
at the three and a half day party.
When asked the secret to their success?
he replied sagely “Shits & Giggles!”
She added “He’s Shits & I’m Giggles!”
and that, my friends is wisdom in a nutshell.

© 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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