Five Poems by Paul Tristram

 

Another Ritual Down

 

Gravitas, also Enchanting

… both barrels…

you could ‘Cut Throats’

upon the [Slick] Angles

… that Fluid into that…

Mesmerising Demeanour.

I prefer Burgundy… and,

Rough amongst the ‘Silk’

… I am not prepared to

let her ‘Get Away’ with

Anything… that’s How

FOCUSED… I am upon

every, little Manoeuvre.

I opened with “Did I just

‘Think’ that out loud?”

… and Ended with…

No Room left for Touché. 

 

Ponies x’s 3, & my friend Jessica (a Landscape, Oil on Canvas)

 

Your warm, poppy-red blushes,

upon heavily freckled cheeks

… and here I go,

chasing your

windblown straw hat again.

I succeed, at long last,

and the prize

is slipping my hand into yours.

“I simply adore that Tor”

you wink, becoming the poet

… and Dartmoor’s timeless,

in many hidden places,

but, especially

inside its haunting depth…

“You’re feeling things

with more than your hands again”

you say, as you dance

around my concentration.

And with that, I am back,

pulled by the scruff of the neck

… just in time for your ‘Squeal’

as you finger-point distant ponies.

 

Anti-Public

 

Away from The Herd Animals…

there is always the slight possibility

of a Natural Disaster occurring.

A lightning strike,

a falling tree,

being wind-struck sideways

over a clifftop…

but, there are no TRAPS.

The overwhelming calmness

is disorientating at first,

suspicious of the beautiful,

serene, newly-found silence…

you cling, for a short while,

to your chaotic-mental-chatter,

until you eventually…

release and let go.

And ‘THIS’, at long last,

is who ‘YOU’ really ‘ARE’,

without a pigeonhole

constricting your unique Soul,

or the rules & regulations

of hypocrites to bind and blind you.

You have ‘Peace’

and ‘Common-sense’

to keep your inner-rebirth warm

… and that strange new feeling

is simply ‘YOU’

stretching on, unpolluted, and Free.

 

Old Woman Falling Off A Balcony

 

“Just now, well, a minute or so ago.

Aye, I saw it with my own eyes…

it wasn’t like in the movies,

all slow motion and all that kack,

you know, flailing arms,

legs and cartwheels…

she just dropped, at speed,

like a brick or something,

nay messing about.

Up the end of the street,

I don’t know if she’s dead,

I couldn’t see the bloody landing,

there’s a great big red lorry

parked right in front of the place.

There’s quite a crowd gathering,

why don’t you get off the settee

and walk on up and have a butchers?

Me, nuh, I’ve seen all that I need to see.

Besides, this is my ‘Day Off’

and I just wanted a bit of quiet.

Oh, I can hear the sirens coming now,

it’s 2:30, I hope this doesn’t muck-up

the Ice-Cream Van coming around?

Jesus Christ, I just wanna eat a cornet,

and mind my own business in peace, mun.”

 

Ambivalent Catacombs

 

I have tasted your ‘traces’

… and watched you

refuse to pander

… no matter the cost.

I’m intrigued…

that you are intrigued

… yet still,

I refuse to finish this lov…

 

Stretched patience…

is like silent cat paws

mentally cell-circling

… into an… unfocus.

‘First Moves’

are for amateurs…

and repulsive desperates.

 

Your eyes have that

‘Don’t Whip Crack Me!’

look about them… mmm,

I’ve turned around

… whilst holding my

desperate to ‘Flower’

heart clenched-fist-like.

 

You shall have me burst

… and you know it,

but for now…

I watch, with curiosity,

from this uncommitted,

spinning, roundabout

… as you self-propel

upon a studious swing…

and the question-marked

backdrop expands… to fit.

 

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since.