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)
‘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!

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

1 comment:

  1. Being an addict of four reading/writing sites over two and a half years, I've read a lot of poetry. There is one poet who stands out among the rest, and that's Paul Tristram. He brings the reader into his world, and the reader feels fascinated. His honesty and openness were huge inspirations for me as I started writing poetry. He is witty and intelligent, thoughtful and observant, wicked and wild. Paul Tristram is one of a kind.