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) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036
And 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! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/
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
growling
“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
Showing posts with label Paul Tristram. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paul Tristram. Show all posts
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Sunday, February 14, 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) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope
at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.
Party Gone Bad
I was walking out of Neath General Hospital,
one cold, wet miserable Saturday night,
with a busted right hand and fractured cheekbone
from fighting some other drunken arsehole in town.
When an ambulance screeched to a halt in front of me
and they wheeled out a woman on a stretcher
who had both hands up tentatively touching at her face,
which was covered and running with blood
over a complexion which resembled chopped liver.
She was screaming “I can’t see a fucking thing?
She glassed me in the face, this is a nightmare!
Why won’t someone please tell me what I look like?”
I turned and walked away as they wheeled her inside
with her friend who was walking silently beside her.
© Paul Tristram 2015
I’m A Lover And A Fighter
“I’m a Lover and a Fighter!”
she said, half-cut and smiling
through the smoke of a Marlboro Red.
Wearing brass knuckles
with kisses stamped into them
upon her scuffed and bloodied fingers,
where lesser mortals balance under
engagement and wedding rings.
“I’d go 5 rounds with you, no problemo
but then there’d be nothing solid
left to fuck afterwards!” she winked, wickedly.
“You’re both erotic and unsettling
at exactly the same time!” I stated, fascinated.
As she mouth-opened two more beer bottles
and slid one over to me whilst slipping
the Barmaid her number with the tip.
“Go buy some rubbers and grab your coat
you’ve pulled…you lucky Bastard!”
She said with a cock-sure growl
as she finished off both our bourbons.
I smiled and to my own amazement
I got up and did exactly as I was told.
© Paul Tristram 2015
Sleazy Low-Life, Gutter Street Punk
She had scraped those letters painfully
into her own 17 year old forehead
with a ‘I Dig Drunk Chicks’ pin badge,
after first shaving herself a Mohawk.
Then walked to the pretty Church
where her older, respectable Sister was
getting Married…they never forgave her.
Now, she’s 49 years old and lives alone
with her 2 cats ‘Flotsam & Jetsam’
in an old peoples Council bungalow.
Stuck often to a kidney dialysis machine,
has part brain damage from a decade
of glue sniffing, which has also left her
almost blind and taken away completely
her sense of smell and she migraines always.
Her Carer comes at 10 and then again at 5
and she is not looking forward to Christmas.
© Paul Tristram 2015
Meat Cleaver Decision
“I left the house party around 1.30am,
I was absolutely tamping.
He was necking Tania,
everyone knows how much I like her,
she’s not my girl, never has been.
She’s never led me on in that way at all,
only ever been friendly
but all the same, you know?
Him, well, I’ve hated him since school,
always had girlfriends
whilst most of us others went without.
good looking, sickeningly interesting
and cool (Whatever the hell that is?)
I did the right thing at first,
stormed back to my bedsit,
layed down and chain-smoked 5 cigarettes.
But I was climbing the walls in torture,
wide awake and brutally naked and exposed
upon the wrong side of God.
I went to the kitchen and picked up
the heftiest knife almost without thinking.
Sprinted the 3 streets in a blur,
thinking over and over in my screaming head
‘Make a cunt out of me will you?
I’ll show you who’s the cunt, cunt!’
I burst in the front door
and found him dancing in the living room.
I hit him exactly 7 times in his beautiful face,
I had to hold him up after the first 2.
The last blow finished him off
and at the exact moment that it happened
everything changed, I went deaf to all
but a eerie mocking laughter coming from within.
My anger vanished immediately,
along with every nice part of me that had ever existed,
it was like finding your soul suddenly burgled.
And I knew emphatically
that I had made the biggest mistake of my life
and that all the sorrys and prayers
in the world were never going to fix what I had done!”
© Paul Tristram 2015
Short Sharp Shock (Detention Centre)
My mate Skin came out of Husk D.C.
back in the late 1980’s.
I met him in the shelters
of Castle Gardens in Swansea,
to share a flagon and a catch up.
He was fit as a fiddle
after 3 months of physical circuits,
he stopped smiling and gave me a warning.
“One of the top Screws up there
is waiting on you coming in,
he’s got something special planned for you.
Claims that when you were running
with ‘The Melyn Bootboys’
his son was in ‘The Cimla Casuals’
And the two of you
had a cricket bat disagreement,
which left him in traction for six weeks,
during that infamous Gnoll Gate Gang Riot.
That’s all he ever talks about, man,
I’m serious, he’s a-gunning for ya
and he’s a right Bastard and all!”
“Fuck him and his son!”
I spat, cocky as ever.
A year later I was in a prison bus
pulling into Husk D.C.
dropping off prisoners
on my way to the more notorious,
higher category,, Portland Borstal.
I looked through the window
and found the Screw
with the grey handlebar moustache
and waved two fingers as we pulled off,
he couldn’t touch me,
I was someone else’s fucking prisoner.
© Paul Tristram 2015
That’s Not The End Of The World You Can Hear,
It’s Just The Sound Of The Tristram’s ‘Kicking Back Drunk’
“Jesus Christ, was that a shotgun I just heard then?
It’s 2am and this is the 3rd night in a cowing row now,
I’ll be on valium at this rate, I swear to God, I will.
My poor John’s got work at 6am in the morning,
I keep hearing and seeing police and ambulances
but this horrible drunken debauchery is still going on,
what’s that all about, eh, why can’t they stop them, Dai?”
“I know, Phyllis, one of the Fathers came out of prison
a few days ago and apparently it’s the only time
that all of the males in the family have been out together
at the very same time in over 2 decades or more.
The police keep telling them to keep the racket down
but they don’t, so they’re pulling out the most drunken
aggressive ones, taking them to the station for an 8 hour
sober up, then letting them go with cautions and warnings.
If they go in heavy-handed they’ll need the riot squad,
there’s about 50 of them in there all together and being fair
the only violence that’s being caused is what they’re doing
to each other, the only complaint really is the noise issue!”
“But that Christmas party they had a couple of years ago
went on until nearly May. They were throwing axes
around in the back garden as the school kids came home
this afternoon and Stan at No. 43 said he saw 2 prostitute
looking rough skanks squatting down and peeing
in the middle of the street last night as he put the cat out,
it’s a disgrace, I need a bath just looking up the street!”
“I know, that’s why I’m out here smoking my Woodbines,
you never know what you might see and it’s much better
than watching TV, that’s for sure, it’s like Beirut out yuh!”
© Paul Tristram 2015
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) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope
at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.
Party Gone Bad
I was walking out of Neath General Hospital,
one cold, wet miserable Saturday night,
with a busted right hand and fractured cheekbone
from fighting some other drunken arsehole in town.
When an ambulance screeched to a halt in front of me
and they wheeled out a woman on a stretcher
who had both hands up tentatively touching at her face,
which was covered and running with blood
over a complexion which resembled chopped liver.
She was screaming “I can’t see a fucking thing?
She glassed me in the face, this is a nightmare!
Why won’t someone please tell me what I look like?”
I turned and walked away as they wheeled her inside
with her friend who was walking silently beside her.
© Paul Tristram 2015
I’m A Lover And A Fighter
“I’m a Lover and a Fighter!”
she said, half-cut and smiling
through the smoke of a Marlboro Red.
Wearing brass knuckles
with kisses stamped into them
upon her scuffed and bloodied fingers,
where lesser mortals balance under
engagement and wedding rings.
“I’d go 5 rounds with you, no problemo
but then there’d be nothing solid
left to fuck afterwards!” she winked, wickedly.
“You’re both erotic and unsettling
at exactly the same time!” I stated, fascinated.
As she mouth-opened two more beer bottles
and slid one over to me whilst slipping
the Barmaid her number with the tip.
“Go buy some rubbers and grab your coat
you’ve pulled…you lucky Bastard!”
She said with a cock-sure growl
as she finished off both our bourbons.
I smiled and to my own amazement
I got up and did exactly as I was told.
© Paul Tristram 2015
Sleazy Low-Life, Gutter Street Punk
She had scraped those letters painfully
into her own 17 year old forehead
with a ‘I Dig Drunk Chicks’ pin badge,
after first shaving herself a Mohawk.
Then walked to the pretty Church
where her older, respectable Sister was
getting Married…they never forgave her.
Now, she’s 49 years old and lives alone
with her 2 cats ‘Flotsam & Jetsam’
in an old peoples Council bungalow.
Stuck often to a kidney dialysis machine,
has part brain damage from a decade
of glue sniffing, which has also left her
almost blind and taken away completely
her sense of smell and she migraines always.
Her Carer comes at 10 and then again at 5
and she is not looking forward to Christmas.
© Paul Tristram 2015
Meat Cleaver Decision
“I left the house party around 1.30am,
I was absolutely tamping.
He was necking Tania,
everyone knows how much I like her,
she’s not my girl, never has been.
She’s never led me on in that way at all,
only ever been friendly
but all the same, you know?
Him, well, I’ve hated him since school,
always had girlfriends
whilst most of us others went without.
good looking, sickeningly interesting
and cool (Whatever the hell that is?)
I did the right thing at first,
stormed back to my bedsit,
layed down and chain-smoked 5 cigarettes.
But I was climbing the walls in torture,
wide awake and brutally naked and exposed
upon the wrong side of God.
I went to the kitchen and picked up
the heftiest knife almost without thinking.
Sprinted the 3 streets in a blur,
thinking over and over in my screaming head
‘Make a cunt out of me will you?
I’ll show you who’s the cunt, cunt!’
I burst in the front door
and found him dancing in the living room.
I hit him exactly 7 times in his beautiful face,
I had to hold him up after the first 2.
The last blow finished him off
and at the exact moment that it happened
everything changed, I went deaf to all
but a eerie mocking laughter coming from within.
My anger vanished immediately,
along with every nice part of me that had ever existed,
it was like finding your soul suddenly burgled.
And I knew emphatically
that I had made the biggest mistake of my life
and that all the sorrys and prayers
in the world were never going to fix what I had done!”
© Paul Tristram 2015
Short Sharp Shock (Detention Centre)
My mate Skin came out of Husk D.C.
back in the late 1980’s.
I met him in the shelters
of Castle Gardens in Swansea,
to share a flagon and a catch up.
He was fit as a fiddle
after 3 months of physical circuits,
he stopped smiling and gave me a warning.
“One of the top Screws up there
is waiting on you coming in,
he’s got something special planned for you.
Claims that when you were running
with ‘The Melyn Bootboys’
his son was in ‘The Cimla Casuals’
And the two of you
had a cricket bat disagreement,
which left him in traction for six weeks,
during that infamous Gnoll Gate Gang Riot.
That’s all he ever talks about, man,
I’m serious, he’s a-gunning for ya
and he’s a right Bastard and all!”
“Fuck him and his son!”
I spat, cocky as ever.
A year later I was in a prison bus
pulling into Husk D.C.
dropping off prisoners
on my way to the more notorious,
higher category,, Portland Borstal.
I looked through the window
and found the Screw
with the grey handlebar moustache
and waved two fingers as we pulled off,
he couldn’t touch me,
I was someone else’s fucking prisoner.
© Paul Tristram 2015
That’s Not The End Of The World You Can Hear,
It’s Just The Sound Of The Tristram’s ‘Kicking Back Drunk’
“Jesus Christ, was that a shotgun I just heard then?
It’s 2am and this is the 3rd night in a cowing row now,
I’ll be on valium at this rate, I swear to God, I will.
My poor John’s got work at 6am in the morning,
I keep hearing and seeing police and ambulances
but this horrible drunken debauchery is still going on,
what’s that all about, eh, why can’t they stop them, Dai?”
“I know, Phyllis, one of the Fathers came out of prison
a few days ago and apparently it’s the only time
that all of the males in the family have been out together
at the very same time in over 2 decades or more.
The police keep telling them to keep the racket down
but they don’t, so they’re pulling out the most drunken
aggressive ones, taking them to the station for an 8 hour
sober up, then letting them go with cautions and warnings.
If they go in heavy-handed they’ll need the riot squad,
there’s about 50 of them in there all together and being fair
the only violence that’s being caused is what they’re doing
to each other, the only complaint really is the noise issue!”
“But that Christmas party they had a couple of years ago
went on until nearly May. They were throwing axes
around in the back garden as the school kids came home
this afternoon and Stan at No. 43 said he saw 2 prostitute
looking rough skanks squatting down and peeing
in the middle of the street last night as he put the cat out,
it’s a disgrace, I need a bath just looking up the street!”
“I know, that’s why I’m out here smoking my Woodbines,
you never know what you might see and it’s much better
than watching TV, that’s for sure, it’s like Beirut out yuh!”
© Paul Tristram 2015
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Paul Tristram: Five Outlaw Poems from the Welsh Underground Poetry Scene
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’ And 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
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
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
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
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