Saturday, November 21, 2015

Avant Garde Poetry By Richard Kostelanetz

Richard Kostelanetz is a former Fulbright Scholar, recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, and the nephew of conductor Andre Kostelanetz (got that from Wikipedia). He probably looks something like this. He is a long-time practitoner and highly respected editor of the avant garde. His Ebooks are available on Amazon, and you can learn more about him here 

Richard Kostelanetz
                          


TEN STORIES ABOUT MEN, WOMEN, AND BEDS


At 8, you take her to bed and tell her a story.
At 18, you tell her a story and take her to bed.
At 28, you don't need to tell her a story to take her to bed.
At 38, she tells you a story and takes you to her bed.
At 48, she’d prefer you take her to your bed so that she can escape home if she doesn’t like you.
At 58, she no longer has doubts about taking you to her own bed.
At 68, she’ll feign virginal surprise and considerations if you take her to bed.
At 78, you tell her a story to avoid going to bed.
At 88, you stay in bed to avoid hearing her story.
At 98, take her to bed and others will hear her story.






A MARRIAGE
A B
A B
A B
A B
A B
A B
A   B
AB

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Poetry By Paul Tristram

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 BarstoolAnd a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204 You can also read his poems and stories here

Sleaze Heads, Scuzz Bags & Street Sluts

I look back, smiling and cringing
at the suicidal recklessness
of those drunken days of debauchery.
Thankfully, with neither regret
nor yearning in my ‘Joan Jett’ heart.
When hangovers were merely things 
to roAR through whilst drinking 
the first two beers of the day down, together
and kicking holes in the afternoon shadows.
The gutters running through our minds,
the Thunderbird soaring through our brains.
Lipstick smeared amphetamine kisses 
and double-barrelled one-night stands,
crawling through that adolescence wreckage
without fear, self loathing or shame.
‘Staying Out For The Duration’ 
was completely a way of life,
‘Asbestos Livers and Concrete Kidneys’
were always the order of the day.
Every evening we’d set fire to the horizon
a 100% free but just a touch more deranged.

© Paul Tristram 2015






It Was When I Saw You Drinking Cider

Around that little campfire by the old railway line
6:30 in the cold January morning
just after the Off Licence had opened.
Three hours of screaming hysterics
subsided with a one mouthful placebo
just holding that plastic bottle like a baby
levelled you like lithium almost immediately.
Unfrantically rolling cigarettes now
whilst breathing simple platitudes,
as the hurt, anger and volcanic insanity
drained quickly from your pretty, weary face.
I saw for a moment the girl you were,
the blueprint before being scrumpled and binned
and the woman that you could have been
before the world broke apart your heart and soul.

© Paul Tristram 2015


Paul Tristram




I haven’t Got Time To Be Sad…I’ve Got Shit To Do

Like putting these breeding ‘Empties’ into bin liners,
sorting out the choking ashtrays without vomiting.
Un-answering the stubborn Landlord’s knock 
upon that fragile, temporary door.
Trying not to step on the cracks of my broken soul
and keeping ‘Switched Off’ the flamethrower in my throat
-so that I do not intentionally or unintentionally
burn and cleanse all, everyone and everything around me 
-is an unrewarding days work all by its lonesome.
Un-wishing all of those naïve childhood stars!
Trying to find the urge to remain in the boot of the vehicle
-which I had eventually worked my way up to driving-
through Life’s dark streets of nightmares and sucker punches.
Untying knots of deep despair and reflection,
crafting Hermit lattice-work, alone.
Building up empires of nothingness within a self-mocking mind
and concurring with all but the rescue-rope and mercy.
Drinking only ‘The Dregs’ for centuries!
Unmarking time with my blasphemous presence.
Oh, and I nearly forgot…waiting for Bunnies in Swansea
to open on Tuesday morning, it’s my birthday
and they have an ‘Early Bird Special’ going
where I can pay to humiliate myself to twice the yawning audience.

© Paul Tristram 2015






Sobriety: Get Back In Your Fucking Corner!

Before I beat you with another bottle,
a keg of beer or a crate of ale even.
You are getting on my wick
with your crystal clear logic
and your clarity (Undiluted!) 
is almost too much for the mind to bear.
You have outstayed your welcome,
you’re a party-pooper, 
a blight upon the night.
How the hell are we supposed to get layed
with you cock-blocking the evening?
Go take your sombre seriousness 
elsewhere, I tell thee.
There are festivities to engage in
and celebrating to be done.
Look, to put it plainly,
‘It’s Time To Hit The Fucking Wall’
and you’re standing right in the way.
See yourself out, arsehole,
here’s a double Pernod
to help you on your ‘Billy No Mates’ way!

© Paul Tristram 2015






“Hey Sexy!” She said to me with her ‘Come-To-Bed-Eyes’
So I gave Her the Finger, Literally.

There was this magnificent Greek God of a man
(I’ve just spat Heineken all over the first draft, laughing!)
standing at the bar preaching loudly
to two subservient, sycophantic henchmen
when he came out with that little ‘Golden Nugget’.
My Girlfriend repeated the words
“Gave her the finger, literally!” looking into my eyes 
with a face double slapped with shock and horror.
He was in his fifties, great big beer belly
(In fact he looked just like the cop 
brother-in-law from the TV show ‘Breaking Bad’)
whilst his ‘Partners In Slime’ looked like
semi-visible…I can’t even continue to explain, it’s painful.
Then he turned sideways, stretched out a leg
like a ‘Gone To Seed’ catalogue model
and yelled at the barmaid who was standing
far too close for such a punch of volume and testosterone,
“Three Lager-Tops and Sambuca’s,
you know, the clear shit they set on fire?
and keep the change, Gorgeous, it’s a twenty,
but you can keep it, Baby, all of it, I like ya!”
Her name is Sian and Sian looked over at us
and did a wanking motion with her hand to her mouth.
When the drinks arrived and Sian reached in to take the empties
he snatched some of Sian’s long hair
between his thoughtless fingers and uttered the immortal words
“Ooooh, you must have scalped an Angel!”
Quick as a flash and as sharp as a Stanley Blade,
Sian grabbed a-hold of one of his flabby breasts and hissed aloud
“You’re out of luck, Bitch…I’m heterosexual for the evening!”
The spell was broken, I relaxed, laughed heartily,
realized that I didn’t have to head-butt him
accidently on purpose going to the bar.
Had a sniff of Amyl Nitrate from my Girlfriend’s 
Liquid Gold bottle and answered her comment
“You’ll have to write about this someday!”
with “Nah, I’d have to tone it down, it’s far too unbelievable!”

© Paul Tristram 2015