Sunday, November 22, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Poundshop Musketeer

He managed to shake off the first Constable
who grabbed a-hold of his shoulders
by the side of the middle till.
But the second Constable rugby tackled him
in the third isle along, right by the tampons.
The Arresting Officer later stated that;
“Although there were no traces of narcotics
in the Client’s system, he had in fact up to three
times the fight in him of a normal Detainee!”
which the Doctor’s have explained as
‘The Manic Fuel’ element of the Patient’s illness.
He had his receding hairline spiked up
like a member of the punk/dance act ‘The Prodigy’
was wearing heavily soiled, grey Prison Remand
tracksuit bottoms, a large female leopard print
brassiere (Fabulous!) stuffed full of chocolate. 
and a black, plastic children’s Zorro mask.
He is now energetically pacing the Observation Cell,
refusing to speak to anyone who doesn’t address him
as Leonardo D’Artagnan Pineapple Nipple the Third.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Captain Oblivion & Sargent Cirrhosis

Sailed the only ship not press-ganging.
In actual fact there was a waiting list
as long as your ‘Hold Fast’ arm
to join their notorious, drunken crew.
In between marauding, brawling,
a-pirating and a-plundering
they’d float around in drunken circles.
Swabbing albatross shite from the deck
with their merry, inebriated faces.
Though ‘Rum’ and ‘Arr’ and ‘Matey’ 
be three very fine words indeed
there is none more beautiful than ‘Port’,
four letters of double meaning
and a bountiful gift that keeps on a-giving.
There’s a driftwood bar on board
called ‘X Marks The Spot’
and the ships very own Apothecary
is also the establishments half-cut proprietor.
Those cannons a-blasting o’er yonder
be brim stuffed with empties and full ashtrays.
The vessels name be ‘Brewer’s Droop’
and the colours be always flying
‘Three Sheets To The Wind’
and ‘What Do You Do With A Drunken Sailor?’
why, you send the scurvy dog back home to us.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Autumnal Shadows Upon A Rugged Welsh Mountainside

Sucking the Autumnal twilight air
deep down into my Celtic core.
Surveying the rough terrain-
instinctively yet unconsciously-
of this rugged Welsh Mountainside.
I move like liquid lightning-
blossoming psychedelic brain
switched on fifteen minutes past-
traversing the ‘In Between World’.
There’s a buzzard calling out…
but wait, it’s really me,
running thirty feet away
from my own scampering shadows.
The flotsam and jetsam of everyday living,
caught and snagging in my visual echo
as I slide with impossible balance.
Freeing and cleansing,
whilst recharging and refuelling
the raging fire inside my Red Dragon Heart.
The bottom path is merely a change
in direction and momentum,
as I twist and half circle perfectly
through the graveyard to the right.
Entering The Village through the back lanes,
hunted by my lover the Full Moon
on this rusting yet electrical October night

© 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 a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope

You can also read his poems and stories here!

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