Posts Tagged ‘Welsh’


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

 


He Said, Sideways, Twice

 

Buttermilk strangers alone in a world of Autumn

caressing the pavement with uneasy stares,

facing the day sideways and aware

of the death within us all.

It’s colour (I’m British) is burgundy

and it laps gently against our tongues

as we try not to speak in rhythms

of anything but passion.

We fail sometimes but fucking hell, we try

and alone I master it: see them fail and pounce,

this world is a background only, I am the magician.

I weave and disappear at will

un-caged and un- harnessed

I am the North side!

you are not alone.

 

© Paul Tristram 2011

 

 

 

Electricity

 

We were having another argument and it was a right fucking beauty!

The last one was so bad that I had taken the house phone out into the back

garden and thrown it into the top pond, then I had grabbed my mobile phone,

taken it out onto the road at the front of the house and thrown it, watching it first

bounce and then shatter into smithereens, whilst thinking to myself

‘That’s £300 I’ve just trashed in less than a minute!’

Then walking back inside the house I proceeded to cut off the plugs to the

computer cables, rendering her vicious emails useless.

But this time (with new phone to my ear!) I was giving it some wellie,

screaming down the phone at her, verbally slicing and tearing back.

This was now my 3rd house phone that I was on and I was not intending to be

buying a fourth one.                                                                 

The arguing intensified to a crescendo where I was now a screaming lunatic,

completely

 

“Fuck you Bitch, you Cunt, you Dirty, Stinking, Filthy Fucking Piece of Whore Shit!”

 

Boom, 3 light bulbs popped above my head, followed by 4 in the kitchen

ping, ping, ping, ping and then the trip switch went for the entire house.

 

Just after I had put the trip switch back on and I am looking for spare bulbs (which

I didn’t have!) she calls me back, only this time the ‘Cunt’ word has made her flip

she is now a neurotic banshee straight outta Hell and she goes for my jugular.

I retaliate, snapping straight into temper, where I thrust and parry with the force

of an amphetamine-crazed wrecking ball (hey, that’s how I roll!)

Whilst walking through my kitchen I see through the glass oven door of the cooker

a blue flashing light and hear a bang! Jesus, that’s my oven ruined now.

I actually find out a few days later that my washing machine has gone too, blown.

I proceed to then drink myself into unconsciousness, after unplugging the phone

and I awake on the settee  at dawn by the dog whining to go out, I let her out in the

back garden and see 8 of my koi fish floating on top of the water.

‘Fuck it!’ I think to myself I’ll deal with them later.

The last time I split up with a girl I blew a water pipe in the bedroom behind my

wardrobe and soaked all my fucking clothes and gear but it had never effected shit

in the garden before.

I opened a can of beer and the curtains at the front of the house and watched an

ambulance pulling out from the old peoples bungalows opposite, this sometimes

happens but this morning by the time I’d drank 5 cans 2 ambulances have been

and gone.

Not too long later she calls me and says

 

“Baby, I love you, please let’s not fight!”

 

I tell her about the fish and the old people and she says

 

“OMG, that’s terrible, I’ll come around later with some new bulbs and look at the

cooker for you, It sounds like the element, I can fix that if we buy a replacement

part, don’t worry.

But baby, we’ve got to stop fighting, you’re fucking killing fish and old people

now, I bet they had pace-makers fitted, Jesus, I’m glad you don’t use an electric

blanket.

I’ll be over soon, don’t touch the kettle, keep drinking beer until I get there baby!”

 

© Paul Tristram 2013