Thursday, April 21, 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!

Last Order’s Scuffle

You could sense it brewing
a good half hour or so
before the bell actually rang.
You can’t trust a virgin landlord,
you need to learn Drinker’s ways
before you start policing them.
There’s bound to be trouble!
Those rules need to be flexible,
there needs to be give and take.
It’s a wonder no one was killed,
there’s an 8 ball still firmly
wedged up in the sodding artexing.
Five days closed for healing
and fresh refurbishments.
The next weekend was different,
he’d revoked a few bans
and calmed down a bit
reaching the night’s finishing line.
Three months have gone by now
and everybody bloody loves him.
He’s been made someone’s Godfather
and us locals refer to him as Captain.

© Paul Tristram 2016

Porcelain Promises

Hollow as a liar’s heart,
brittle as the rose-tinted half-truth.
Delicate as cobweb strands,
she weaves and crochets
empty words and false promises
into an idiot superhero cape
for you to wear blindly.
Mocking yet careful are her ways,
the tender traps she baits with echoes.
It’s like hunting without exertion.
Blagging matters of the heart,
her way, a whim,
no more reason than being there.
A cat with mouse,
a sly and smiling Trojan horse
of betrayal and devastation
corrupting all that crosses her path.

© Paul Tristram 2016

You Shouldn’t Have Told Me No

He was sat outside the middle
entrance of Neath Market.
Scabby, dirty, lost and alone,
counting the pennies in a thin plastic
disposable coffee cup.
When she approached in a straight line,
directly from the front.
She pulled out her purse,
opened it slowly,
then shook her head
and laughed
as she closed it again
and put it away.
“It’s you… after all these years,
you mock me?
You are the cause of all of this.
I’ve spent 17 years homeless
because of you.
Lost my wife and sons
because of your gossiping and lies
and I never did anything to you
except not date you
all those years ago?
I’m a good man and you ruined me.
If there’s a hell
there must be a special place
reserved just for you.
I’ll pray for you!”

“Save your breath,
your prayers don’t work.
And the hell you speak of
is already occupied
I filled it up to the brim with you!”

© Paul Tristram 2016

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