Paul Tristram

by Horror Sleaze Trash on October 31, 2012

Paul Tristram lives in the woods in the UK, drinks far too much beer, listens to a lot of punk rock and writes poetry.  His favourite chat up line is “Do you fancy going halves on a bastard?” and he refuses to drink soft drinks neat!

Taking Masturbation In Hand

These lonely nights are endless,
split only by momentary
splashes of self induced
(I’m glad I have a good memory)

© Paul Tristram 2010

She Opened Up My Stitches

As I fell backwards
down the stairs,
fourteen of the fucking things.
I looked at her
upside down
and said
“I love you!”
She threw the empty vodka bottle
down upon me,
I’d have rathered it was the full one
but it wasn’t.

© Paul Tristram 2010

No Cheap Wooden Frames For Me

It was 5.30am
I’d never seen food
left outside shops before,
if only the pavements
could turn the tables
the people exiting stop-tap
would quickly relieve them
of their weight.
But the paving slabs
lay silent in uneven clarity
as my steel-tapped feet
hammered upon them
in superior confusion.
I found the side door
which I entered,
throwing the skin
of an unpaid for banana
over my shoulder
to hopelessly catch up
with my conscience.
I climbed the stairs
and sat down, bewildered.
A tea lady entered and told me
that the boss would see me
in a few minutes.
I stared at The Flying Scotchman
imprisoned within
a cheap wooden frame,
made up my mind
and walked back down the stairs.
Planning to steal as many
bananas as I could
and to never be awake
at this time of the morning

© Paul Tristram 2008


A Life Of Scripts

“I cold turkey’d
Watched my girlfriend sweating
for seven days.
As we cwtched up
In our joint despair,
The horror of it is apparent
and unspeakable.
We’re on liquid now!”

“Have some of this
you’ll feel better”

“But I am trying to get out of it”

“For fuck sake it is only a gram”

“I can’t because
I still remember
How blue her eyes were when I met her!”

© Paul Tristram 2010

Japanese Knotweed

“It’s a bastard to get rid of,
almost impossible, keeps coming back!”
he once told me.
I believe him, I see it everywhere.
driving ice-cream vans
past my bungalow at ten
in the morning.
With blue rinses and wielding
umbrellas in town,
like pissed off Grim Reapers.
Wearing police uniforms.
Carrying clipboards.
Shouting the word of God.
Augmenting post office queues.
Sleeping with beautiful women
and breaking apart proud men.
There is no escape.
only tolerance, headaches
and the constant search
for the sunny spots
between the mess
they create.

© Paul Tristram 2006

I’ve Got A Bomb

It might be sitting
in your lap
as we’re speaking.
It’s in one of my poems.
I’ve written too many
of them to now remember
which one I hid it in?
Concealed within the words,
ready to blow on eyesight.
A little bonfire night
without a prefixed date.
Waiting like a statue
itching to move at last.
Is it you or someone else
who shall be full stopped
by its blast?

© Paul Tristram 2006

Previous post:

Next post: