Posts Tagged ‘Paul Tristram’


It’s More About The Mind (The Older We Get!)

“Tits, ass and that delicious flower
tucked away beneath it all
are a young man’s best friend,
and rightly so.” he explained
with a reminiscing half-smile
lighting up his wrinkled face.
“But it’s more about the mind
as we get older and wiser.
There’s all this crap about
finishing each other’s sentences…
now starting each other’s sentences
that’s where the magic is.
You get a soul connection
and you don’t just ejaculate
then wipe it on the bedsheets.
You stay there warm and buzzing
for weeks, months, sometimes years.
All the words in the world
mean absolute shit in the long run
compared to just knowing
that someone cares deeply for you-
no matter what-without them
having to open their mouth about it.”

© Paul Tristram 2016


The Widow’s Wank-Whimper & The Brambles Of Sorrow

 

Down below her barbed wire waist
is ‘Dead Man’s Land’
used to defecate
and piss out poison only.
Sex is a mongrel dog
with a manky eye
in need of castration.
To be controlled
and leashed at all times.
The last time she foolishly
touched herself and came.
Her fingertips lost grip
and she dropped
as heavy as the word ‘No’
into the abyss
that he had left behind.
It took her 18 long months
to crawl back up onto shore.
Nowadays… instead…
she practices throwing knives
inside her furious mind.
Whilst waiting adamantly
for tonight’s inevitable
clawing match with insomnia.

 

 

© Paul Tristram 2016

 

 


A Bag Of Puckering Arseholes

“Oi!, if you bang on that front door
one more sodding time.
I’m throwing down this half-full
pot of piss onto the lot of ya.
I told you that as soon as the last kid
left home so would you be.
Now it’s been 3 months
get over it and move on already.
I’d call the Heddlu
but I’m not threatened in the slightest,
more irritated like.
It’s half past midnight for Christ Sake!
and you’ve brought
your 3 divorced friends ‘round
from The Lamb & Flag
with you for moral support.
Aww, my heart pumps piss for ya,
they couldn’t save
their own cowing marriages.
I’ll be Damned
if they’ll be doing owt for yours.
Now, fuck off and take ‘em
bag of puckering arsehole mates with ya
before I let the new dog out, ya useless cunt!”

© Paul Tristram 2016

 


Street Art Sweetheart

Under a blood red vandalized moon
she spray-painted our street names
together inside a love heart.
At the side of the subway entrance
where we were hiding from Security Guards
after customizing a train
with war paint and gang colours.
We shared a cheeky little finger dab
of something to keep the edge on
then headed urban fox like back into the city
via the back lanes and canal banks.
She had first asked me out a week ago
under a ‘Banksy’ of two Policemen necking.
And now here I was, her sidekick,
shadow, the eyes in the back of her head.
As she set about artistically turning
the Magistrates Court entrance way
into a pig in suspenders with wide open legs.

© Paul Tristram 2016

 

 


Something I Wrote On Page 69 Of Her Little Black Book

I HATE YOU,
ROT IN HELL!

© 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

 

 


 

Ha! (Nothing, I Was Just Laughing At Your Cum Face!)

 

Jesus Christ, I was only joking

come back to bed and straddle mine.

 

 

© Paul Tristram 2013

 

I Resemble That Remark

 

“You are a complete Bastard!”

She yelled as spit bounced off my face.

 

“Yes, you are right, I agree with you!”

I answered with a weary smile.

 

“Of all the dirty lowdown tricks.

How dare you agree with me

when I’m insulting you, are you mad?

Christ, you fucking infuriate me.

If I called you a ‘Cunt’ or an ‘Asshole’

you’d probably smile and agree, wouldn’t you?”

She hissed with a voice of venom.

 

“Well, given the proper occasion,

I can be both at exactly the same time!”

I answered, smiling and agreeing.

 

“See, there you go again,

turning an insult into a compliment.

I could stab you in the face with a fucking fork!”

She screamed, grabbing her coat and slamming

the front door loudly behind herself.

 

It was Thursday night again, her sisters girlie night.

I don’t know why she didn’t just say

that she was going and then just go?

I’ve been called a Bastard 3 Thursdays this month

and the truth is I really like the break it gives me,

I’ve even started stocking up beer on the Wednesday,

because I’m a clever Bastard like that. J

 

© Paul Tristram 2013

 

Do I Look Fucking Sci-Fi To You?

 

There a bloke moved into the attic room (You remember Trophy’s old place?)

he’s got a North English accent and I shouldn’t really judge him because I have

only spoke to him twice and on both occasions I walked away from him after a

very long, drawn out minute or two, but I shall judge the cunt all the fucking same,

The Geezer Is A Fucking Dickhead!

 

He is into (Christ, I can hardly bring myself to say it!) Star Trek, on the day he

moved in I had the misfortune of needing to go for a piss while the landlady was

showing him the showers and she introduced me as the writer,

“Oh, what kind of things do you write, Sci-Fi?” he asked and wrongly answered

himself.

 

“No, do I Fuck, I write about real things, like piss missing the toilet bowl,

headaches on Sundays, women who can bring their periods on at will, the intricate

shading of a black eye, flea’s with drinking problems, the buzzing of a police

scanner, how Prozac doesn’t work, hot wax on pink nipples, scratch marks on the

back of my soul, peacock feathers dipped in bitterness and drying on a hot Summer

Welsh pavement, knives with badly burnt points, pubic hair smiles, Uri Geller’s

haemorrhoids alive and well and living on another plain, the funny bone’s silent

music, Germaine Greer doing it for herself, Old Holborn hangovers, empty

cardboard boxes which heroically yet uselessly defy the wind, a pebble on Oxwich

Beach, fragments of false hope, love bites on the ass, the fever of fear, the pollution

of panic, uncomfortable happiness, a castrated mongrel dog licking a discarded

lollypop somewhere in Cardiff’s Splot area, how cobwebs are really fucking made,

ants with herpes, song thrush’s with thrush, why sledgehammers don’t rest well

in kitchen sinks, Beer, aids, cancer, heart attacks, ulcers, fruit salads and running

out of cigarette papers, Japanese Knotweed, the female condom, Neath Fair, a

crumbling house brick, splitting matches in a prison cell, slopping out on the 2’s,

the liberty cap, crow’s feet and chicken shit, a dented saucepan, an old water well

full to the brim with empty citer bottles, luminous vibrators, cigarette burns with

attitude, Women, ice-cubes, dental hygiene, disused bike ramps, scowering pads,

empty wallets, angry wallpaper, bad haircuts and Fly Argaric.

 

Lonely red wine picnics, breadcrumbs on the bed sheets, tracing-paper toilet roll,

Blackjacks, helter-skelters, smoke glass ashtrays, The River Neath, almost poetry,

insane taxi drivers, THE GUTTER, giros, beggars, thieves and tired babysitters.

Post office queues, a blob of turquoise, clothes of black, scarlet velvet curtains,

that purple crap that dentists give you to rinse your mouth out, another bit of

turquoise, nutmeg, lime scale, dangerous stepladders, uneven pavements, the X5

bus which goes from Neath to Swansea, laying down upon the back seat of the X5

bus from Neath To Swansea somewhere in Briton Ferry and pissing onto the floor.

A sticky bag of sherbet lemons, St. Trinian’s movies, Smudge and the mess which

resides within his cranium, flint and steel, gorse bushes, tractor tires, stone

throwing, rats, bats and antelopes, watching piss run along the floor of the X5 bus

from Neath to Swansea, spelling mistakeses, Bagpuss, whisky, 9p tins of beans,

foxes, rusty spanners, prison cell nightmares, Mr. Benn, the insane guy from

upstairs, broken nasal cavities, forehead stretch marks, leukaemia H2O, black

desert boots, silver jewellery, January’s anger, the Swedish Au Pair I once met

in Soho London, chopsticks and switchblades, the revenge of teachers, The Ivy

Tower, witches, Welsh Folk and Valleys of deep living green, Tiger Bay, The

Saltings, Monkey Rock, Port Talbot’s steel works, nicotine stains on toilet

porcelain, bonging, Kate Moss.

 

Window shopping, ram-raiding, suicidal servitude, the false hope of Summer,

DEATH, trying to avoid stepping in piss when exiting the X5 bus in Swansea,

pieces of string, razor blades, burning skateboards, plain out of shape candles,

a short middle fingernail.

 

Bedbugs and the Karma Sutra with black coffee, INSANITY and other day to

day emotions, gravy granules, chocolate chip cookies, sunsets, electric light

bulbs, dirty looks, fish tanks, lies and excuses.

 

Christina Applegate holding a rose between her teeth, Crickley Hill, The Forest

Of Dean, magpies, spears, wooden staffs and pine kindling, the first roll-up of

the morning, button mushrooms, MAGIC MUSHROOMS.

 

The way things used to be, the blonde guy who keeps giving me dirty looks in

Ottackers book shop, the girl with the long straight brown hair and glasses who

works in Solo Record Shop in Truro, those damned Cathedral bells which never

stop ringing.

 

Pornography, sickness, music, depression, donkey rides, spinning out, drunken

teenagers, pointing two fingers upwards, hunger pains, matchstick craftwork,

making mailbags in Swansea Prison, signing on, opting out, books and shit,

custard slices, blue tack and train stations.

 

VODKA, rope burns, idiocy, truth, decadence, purity, Autumn, the number

thirteen, DRUGS, constipation, the shits, white trousers, MORE DRUGS, road

cone helmets, a shopping trolley ride, HOSPITALS.

 

Mint aero’s, suicide, birth, perfection, fear, tattoo’s, paint brushes, the Summer

holidays spent forced indoors, ANGER, SPITE and the guillotine, frost bite,

the moon, masturbation and blackboards.

 

Pernod, LAGER, crisps, Big Mac’s, Chinese takeaways, fucking ice-cream vans,

ANXIETY, STRESS and other past times, broken cuckoo clocks, V Fucking D,

damaged goods, sharpening sticks on curb stones, Windsor Road, The Knoll,

The Coach House, Fucking Kicking Back Drunk, descending rain, wet knickers,

dental floss, fire blankets, plastic cups, cardboard furniture, warts and dandruff,

the shadows, pierced body bits, shaved eyebrows and desperation.

 

Fried egg sandwiches, A4 notepads, those little blue pens from Argos, The Melyn

Woods, Katherine Close, Gloucester Cathedral, indigestion, cramp vampires,

vicious toothpicks, a sack of railway stones, chicken pasties, sawn-off shotguns,

crowbars and phlegm.

 

Blackheads on one’s tongue oooOOOOHHHH! Trago Mills, blank cassettes,

castanets, cornets, hornets, car bonnets, empty bottles, hookers, DEBAUCHERY,

body odour, the guilt mangled up inside its cover aaaAAAARRRggggGG! and

of course other such important issues like Halloween Hallucinations.

The landlady and the Twat who likes Star Trek had stood with open mouths while

I had divulged this information, but now that I had finished they looked at each

other then quickly turned and walked away.

 

It must have been something I said? mind you, I think that I did overdo it a bit

when I mentioned paint brushes, I don’t know, what do you think?

 

© Paul Tristram 2013

 


Sex Slave To Celibacy

 

So you tell me that you going to try

celibacy for the next 12 months.

To have a break from the games

and the weekend hunting.

Giving your heart and emotions

time to heal and slow down.

 

Why would you tell me this?

I have an instant hard-on.

I feel it awaken to a semi

then curl up and into a full erection

within a second and a half.

I look down and see it

through my old work jeans

wriggling alive like a purring snake

beneath the worn denim.

 

Your mouth is too full for celibacy!

Your eyes were made to shine

screaming orgasms through.

I try to think about you not needing sex

ignoring the throbbing, weeping flesh bone

alive and hungry within my lap

and the opposite happens.

I see you awake to a cloud of silky sighs,

pushing the blankets from your bare legs

and your swollen, moist pussy lips

kissing the inside of your panties

softly, delicately, teasingly.

 

I feel your hair twisted around my fingers

with your head pulled backwards,

your body arched with arse cheeks

splayed wide as I thunder perfectly

like a flesh and bone battering-ram,

peeking to a speed-blur right up behind you.

Spurting with momentum

the volume of my sticky, eager seed

straight into the furnace at your pussy’s heart.

 

Then it switches and you are sucking

the pearly strings of pre-cum

off and around the purple head of my cock.

While I am pushing my tongue rapidly

into the burgundy fleshiness of your cunt,

lapping in and out and around

zigzagging the musky trace between your lips  

and drawn like a magnet up to your clit.

Then it changes once more

it is now just a headshot of you, smiling

your warm, friendly smile.

The jerking has ebbed away

the throbbing reduced itself to sensitivity

as I dab away the last glistening traces

and flush!

I wash my hands and call you back

to tell you that celibacy is a big step

that maybe you should give yourself

a little more time to think it over.

But if you would like to discuss it further

I will be available later on this evening?

 

© Paul Tristram 2013