Posts Tagged ‘Lit Journals’

$20 Words



may result






will not

adversely affect





in levi’s 511’s

sit on ottoman

mash down its face

let it dry munch my ass

until i’m superior again


across room

young tan man sits indian-style on floor

slowly cuts out ominous letters

from tinfoil sheet

will eventually form words:



next to him

conjugal birthday cake

naps on my bed

pulsates under slime-green frosting

reese’s pieces encrust its borders

breathes thru peanut butter slits


since 40

i no longer blow out candles

my cake blows out mine


ottoman’s fuzz

pricks my ass cheeks thru levi’s 511’s

i resolve this by trimming it

slather cushion with barbasol cream

shave off fur with gillette disposable razor

then sit on it to test out

rub my balls back-&-forth

against smooth undulating surface


for 1st time

ottoman refuses to dry munch

begins TICKING instead

i tear open pillow

pull out innards

comprised of terrible clock mechanisms


i’m appalled by annoying sound

only to notice my birthday cake

nasty & dripping

watching me

i then scoop out its entrails

find more TICKING


i step back

to impassive image of young tan man

still cutting out tinfoil letters

as if set on perpetual replay




In the heroine minute

There is no solace.

In the acid hour

There is only a handful

Of shrieking image.

In the sober day there is

Nothing to salvage,

Only an aching for

An infinite end,

But there is only a

Beginning in the

Marijuana mile.

From university to ruin,

From here to the

Ecstasy second,




Delay the smack thought.

In the moment of waiting,

Lean on a shadow,



Perceive the hunger action.

In the damning abyss,

Resent the auspice.


Contrive in silence.

Endure the corpse-field dawn.

Something I Wrote On Page 69 Of Her Little Black Book


© Paul Tristram 2010



They’ll Destroy The Boy

With their lives of black and white
they will not understand
his world of creative colour.
Confused by his constant daydreaming
and his mistrusting normal guidance
they will mistakenly judge it right
to try and black and white his mind.
With a uniform to wear
which should not look worn or dirty
and uniformed thinking to match
the other children’s cloned behaviour.
They will temporarily imprison
his beautiful, colourful, creative mind
within a cell of monotonous grey.
Like a butterfly pinned to chipboard
or a songbird in a cage
singing longfully at the open
living room window.

© Paul Tristram 2012



The Best Way to Treat a Husband as an Ex

Tell him he is stupid, an asshole,

mother fucker.

Then he wants to get her

to calm down.

You never have sex with me anymore

she said.

So he goes to his side of the bed

and she calls 911.

Then he goes to a messily room

upstairs five minutes later

the cops come in flashlights

in his eyes and makes him

sit in his underwear next to the bed.

Making sure he does not

Have a loaded gun

The women cop loved this

and gave him a really good blow job

with the flashlights light

raking across the carpet floor

and some reflecting off

her shiny copper badge.

Then she gave her phone number

to his wife. Do this again I’ll be right here.

“Skullblaka: Head of A Discarded Machine”

The Skullblaka stirred up a buzzard’s nest wherever it planted its beak into an azure marsh. Squirrels, toads, termites, boars and honey badgers rallied around the obnoxious posturing of this ancient head — an SUV among primates, but this was no paleolithic Dodge model. Bone density meant unbreakable – something like thermite and solar plexus plastic boasting ‘the might to withstand magma craters, and other praetorian phenomena’ while Model-T’s chugged down the eco-streets like well oiled platypuses. Politeness was not a part of the Skullblaka’s programming. “The great blockhead” as it was addressed hissed at the foxes and the tiny snakes, slinging dirty looks toward them when they’d pass down the creek, on water or on foot.

It neither ate nor slept, nor would it put up with any heady resistance from the creatures of the forest fauna – even the quiet ones that were in search of happier sentiments. Twice, Tilda the Black Bear caught a porcupine spike-laced torpedo in her side. Out for a look at some beehive neighborhoods, she paddled away in pain, furious at the Talking Head that simply would not shut up. There was no enchantment involved in this area of woodland, no endorsement from a Lothlorien that was formerly civilization, torn from its crystalline high chair when food was cooked on command and didn’t have to be roasted over the fires of modesty. This was Sherwood Forest not, nor a metropolis. Natural races ran these lands, barring the hostile artifact stuck in the future – not so much the past. Skullblakas were irritable, though not without a sense of survivalist humor. For instance, when it would use deciduous animation to pit pythons and jaguars against one another in a Quetzalcoatl-like death match in the trees, a cruder version of the Jungle Book cartoon was born. “Mowgli … mostly … surrounded by brainless animals,” so they quipped.

And so the orangatans and the leaf ants and the hawks disregarded its place in the ecosystem, for it was indeed a strange misnomer to these residents, utterly unwanted in this tranquil refuge. A tumor that nature would soon be rectified when monsoon rains came, as the Skullblaka rusted to death. Hard headed as its inventors, it couldn’t bother the native animals with demeaning slurs anymore, or environmental neglect. Hollow-minded, quantum sapped, nevermore magic gone.

drooping sunflowers

i look at the cut sunflowers
at the entranceway to the grocery

three for seven bucks

only they are already drooping
in their big, scratched plastic vase

how depressing to see sunflowers this way!

i think of van gogh’s sunflowers instead
the tranquil feeling of monet’s painting as well

how many people have stood in front of them
from peers to assholes with ipads
who take their quick tourist photos
and then move on without really looking

those immortal sunflowers on canvas
always vibrant and full, never heading toward decay

i think those museum pad-holes deserve
to look at these grocery sunflowers
instead of those painted by the masters

let them take their photos of these dying monstrosities
and post them onto facebook or tumblr or instagram

for people no longer experience anything
as the general course of their life

but must always be the focus
like everyone has become a three year-old child

so they might as well save themselves
the twenty-five dollar museum entrance fee

there is no hope for these sunflowers
i could buy them all and give them a proper burial

some will get bought
most will get tossed with the expired meat and eggs

i think of drooping sunflowers
wilting in the late summer sun

then i go inside the grocery store
to buy two ripe pink lady apples
from a cashier who looks so angry

like i ruined her day just by saying hello

or perhaps she’s bent out of shape

about the sunflowers dying too.

Kite or Cunt

High as a kite
low as a cunt,

it’s the in-between that makes life so hard to live.

My Sad Drooping Poem

And this room gets colder as
I think of all the shags I lost, who
got away, who
pulled up their knickers and
said nothing,
disappointment and silence
in their pretty eyes.
But I’m drunk and
feeling empty
once more.
‘I chose beer over you, dear!’
‘I chose another wine, this time!’
I couldn’t get IT up,
whatever IT is,
I’m a lover,
not a fucker,
I just lay and belch,
I don’t say I’m sorry,
I’d never say that.
I have Jane Austen in my soul!
I am too sensitive for you!
‘Hey, see if you can get HARD
with Jane Austen in your soul,
But so what, babe,
a climax is a split-second bliss,
like a bit of madness,
and anyway,
this poem
has already gone on
longer than that,
and some might say
long enough…

Try This

There’s no more jokes
about your face, about
your weight or your
inky eyes.

There’s no more light
on us, on where we
used to be, the place
we used to exist.

Our miracles are dumb and
only for us. You see we
don’t perform much

But use your oils,
paint sunflowers,
cut off an ear and
give it to me.

Has that been done
before? I was only
trying to be

Maybe just wrap your lips
around my life and

think of something
good to say.

Think of something


Between songs
the old drunken woman
spit in my drink.
She wanted to get it on
and it was not happening.
She was the black cat,
the gum in the hair,
the winged fly
flying into your soup.
The old drunken woman
wanted me.

In the city of sin
the old drunken woman
wanted to get between
the sheets, but that train
left the station.
She was twenty years too late.






Something like fresh pine.

Not christmas pine.

Summer pine near the summit,

all beholden truth.

Just a hint

just the nape

just the edge of a skirt,

the trembling of a weary knee.

Upward and downward

and upward still,

the laughing dada

in the tiny presence of

each absurd thing.

come cuddle my thoughts

and slob on my nob

and breathe the fire of each minute.

We are alone in each sphere,

the sphere of the earth

the sphere of the soul

the orb of the brain

and the balls of my balls,

Are ours so good as this?

How many erections

do you see in the sky?

How much ejaculate

in the wailing cosmos?

I have been here

and i have been there

but i have never been everywhere.

Are ours so good as this?

– Carlo Campanella