Monday, February 15, 2016

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

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 books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)

‘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!

Carpet Patterns

I can’t stand it, it’s too much.
I have only come over
to buy an eighteenth
but she’s gone to the kitchen
and left me.
This fucking room is attacking me!
I’ve taken too much LSD
over the years
to cope with this.
The floor is alive,
swaying, melting and whirling.
The threads of reality
battle it out
in colourful dodgem cars
beneath my feet.
As she fucks about
risking losing fingertips,
hacking into a lump
the size of the fucker
I sprinkled into her
last birthday cake.

© Paul Tristram 2005

Published in Purple Patch, No. 111, June/July 2005

Worrying About The Empties

Stamping empty cans
into large aluminium medallions.
Tying them up in carrier bags,
like chopped up bits
of a guilty secret
and rushing them
to the outside bin.

Why am I doing this, it is crazy?

In the daylight
I return home with them
by the bag full.
Sometimes with a crate
upon one shoulder
smiling like a father
carrying his 2 year old son.
Often I stand over
by the garden wall at noon,
with a fresh beer in one hand
and a blunderbuss in the other
making a roll-up
with my nose and tongue,
defiant to everything.
But the early morning carnage
is a different matter
God dam it!
Each Tuesday I feel
a sense of relief
as I grab the bin
by both handles,
take the strain
and head for the gate.
Thinking I should be
weighing these in
instead of putting
them out.

© Paul Tristram 2006

Published in Durable Goods (USA), Issue Forty-One, 2011

Living Can To Mouth

Your music collection
is split into items
now only worth £3 each.
£3 x 4 =
a packet of cigarettes
and a couple of beers.
Toilet rolls are unwound
from public lavatories.
Your taste in tobacco
is universal.
Prayer echoes curse
echoes prayer.
Restless always
you hurt to keep away
the sting of each
cold morning.
Women are for
another chapter.
Poetry doesn’t exist!

© Paul Tristram 2006

Published in Pulsar, September 2006, Edition 2/06 (46)

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