Thursday, October 20, 2016

Outlaw 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 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!

For Fuck Sake!

“Oi! Stop being a cunt here, mun.
Do us all a fucking favour
and ban that idiot sat over there
who keeps crying into his beer
whilst mumbling ‘Debra’
under his breath like a fucking loser.
That’s the 20th time he’s put on 
‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’.
I swear… one more fucking time
and I’m a head-butt the pool table
into quarters
and lamp the twat with the largest piece.
He’s ruining ‘Giro Day’ for all of us!” 

© Paul Tristram 2016

Amphetamine, Alcohol & Anarchy

He’s a one man affray.
A walking blinking, blinding
slot machine
upon trouble-seeking legs
and the jackpot is Mayhem.
An insult for each question,
scornful fists as answers.
There’s no heart upon his sleeve
only bloody gang colours.
Doesn’t comprehend 
queues or patience,
the only waiting he does
is for drug dealers,
the off-licence to open
or duty solicitors to turn up
at the police station.
Doesn’t give two flying fucks
for the rules & system,
has a code all of his own.
Takes life as it’s thrown at him
and throttles its irritating throat.
Laughs at Heaven, Hell & Valhalla
and every other thing
not here… right now… before him.
Juggles ‘Playing It Loose’
& ‘Keeping It Fast & Tight’
with perfect animal instinct.
And when Her Majesty
hasn’t got him at her pleasure,
he’s wherever the noise is in Town.

© Paul Tristram 2016

Aggressive Walking

I was talking to that new guy
up on the 3’s
a couple of nights ago
in the canteen queue.
Yeah, with the scars, 
that’s the fucker.
He’s a sandwich short of a picnic
that one, ain’t he.
Fucking out there like… Pluto!
Does a lot of snarling,
a bit disconfuckingcerting
when the cunt’s 
standing right up behind you like.
Anyway, I played it safe
and swapped places with him.
If someone’s getting it
from behind
then it’s gonna be me
holding the shank & blindsiding,
know what I mean, mate.
We got to nattering,
as you do like.
Well, in between him
arguing with himself?
I asked him what he was in for?
I was more than a little curious.
He answered ‘Aggressive Walking’
can you Adam & Eve it?
Is there even such a thing?
And he claimed to be a repeat offender.
Mad as a bucket of frogs, that one,
stay well clear if I was you, son.

© Paul Tristram 2016

Horrible People Smile Too

But it’s not their faces (Either one of them!)
that you should be concerned with.
You can’t ask a nasty Bastard
to listen to sense and reason… they have none.
Or expect a sneaky, snaky, cowardly scumbag  
to start playing fair… they don’t play fair.
Don’t be drawn in by false flattery
it’s just part of their deception.
What’s going on beneath that calm, friendly surface
is a different story all together.
They are leading you ‘Down The Garden Path’
with sweet, insincere butterfly voices,
setting you up tidily for an unpleasant fall.
You are a victim in the making,
they are tuned into your niceness, honour,
sense of justice and fair play.
And they are going to try to use 
your own strengths and good character against you.
By trying to put out that ‘Light’ shining in your soul,
why? because they have no substance of their own.

© Paul Tristram 2016

The Last Laugh Isn’t For You, Fuckface… But It Will Be About You!

The best end to a prison phone call
I ever heard was 
Tommy Two Ribs from Ystalyfera
“The last laugh isn’t for you, Fuckface
… but it will be about you!”
I’m waiting to use the Landing’s
dog & bone next, I laugh and say
“You know them things are monitored?
Careful how ye tread.”
“Fuck ‘em, I’m just finishing up
an 8 for malicious wounding, mate…
what they gonna gate-arrest me
for threatening words & behaviour?
A Mickey Mouse public order offence?
What’s the most can happen, eh?
28 day imprisonment cooldown.
You’re having a laugh ain’t ya,
I’d do that standing on me head
and have to ask for another 28 days
just to get me back on my feet again.
Nah, fuck ‘em and their bollocks, son.
That wasn’t no threat anyway…
it was clairvoyancy,
I was doing the slag a favour.
Besides, I should be getting him nicked
not the other way ‘round…
cunt didn’t cross a gypsies palm with silver,
I’m the victim here… I’ve been robbed!”

© Paul Tristram 2016

The Bareknuckle Bantam’s

You can try fighting a force of nature
but that shit’s going to get you down.
As heavy as a New Orleans Summer
and thirteen notches up from grazing.
The bars around here are splinter palaces
come Friday and Saturday night.
Pool table change, beer money,
switchblades and old school brass knuckles.
There’s a pecking order everywhere,
downtown gangland lines are being crossed.
The Boys in Blue are screeching
grown up schoolyard battles 
upon every major inner-city corner.
Everyone’s high and drinking ‘Gun-Ho!’
and ‘In Like Flynn’ 40oz bottles.
Dressing razor-sharp, tattooed colours,
turf-strutting with your 25 man pride.
It’s the modern day gladiator arena,
barbaric, caveman and bone to bone.
It’s where you earn your rank and legend
where a warrior’s scars are traded blow for blow.

© Paul Tristram 2016

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