Sunday, September 27, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Pain, Pain

Pain, Pain go away,
come again a Drunken Day.

© Paul Tristram 2010

Drug Seller, Fortune Teller

“Oh, you’re back in again, nice to see you
…how much cocaine did they catch you with
this time then?”

“See, It’s a conspiracy, everybody knows
what’s going on and it’s not even hitting
the newspapers until tomorrow afternoon.
Even the Medic in Reception earlier told me
that he’d been praying that God and the Angels
would help me stay off the wicked white powder
when I last got out of prison, I mean Jesus Christ!
He didn’t even take a glance at the clipboard
to see what I was in for this time, he just knew,
everyone just knows, it’s a stitch up, I’m sick of it.
It’s not fair at all, I know my rights and this
bullshit is wrong, all of it, done up like a kipper.
The police are fitting me up left, right and centre,
why don’t they pick on someone else for a change?
I’m sacking my Solicitor and getting another one,
he’s not even worth the Legal Aid paper work,
everyone’s out to get me, I’ve had enough!”

“Wow, you’re only ever out for three months
at a time and you’ve only ever been nicked
for the same thing, over and over again.
Grasses and clairvoyancy just aren’t needed
with you Sunshine, now go and get a couple of
valium off Dai Biscuits and calm the fuck down!”

© Paul Tristram 2015

Oxygen & Air Affair

‘just breathe…in and out…softly’
he whispered inside his own mind.
Wincing sharply as a recollection
of violence flashed through like lightning.
‘calm down…just focus upon the darkness
…float and drift…and recover slowly
…it’ll all be there to deal with later’
An image of blood upon his favourite boots
and a broken, splintered table leg
balancing precariously and swinging gently-
like the scales of justice-half in and half out
of a double glazed front door
made him open his eyes in panic.
He snapped them back closed quickly
‘just shut it all out…think of nothing’
The bedding was up over his face
and he reached out his right hand
gingerly to the side of the bed
and felt the cold perfectness
of the twined circled sawn-off shotgun barrel. 
Ah, at least he was still at home, no police cell,
he relaxed a little until the word ‘Bastard’
started screaming inside his aching head
by several different angry voices
as the damn of the whisky blackout’s
amnesia began to shuffle and break.
Reaching out his jittering hand again
until it came to rest upon the sanctuary
of a bottleneck, lifting it gently
and feeling still liquid content
between nervous thumb
and ‘I’m starting to not
give a fuck anymore’ forefinger.
He decided that now was the perfect time
to brave the day, last night, and properly awake?

© 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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