Contributor: Paul Tristram

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So, I finally managed
to get him to agree
to a meeting in town.
I spent 3 days
physically getting ready
& mentally preparing
to try to win him back.
I had a different speech
composed every hour.
Practicing each line,
sometimes out loud,
in the street,
like a crazy bitch.
I was there 3 hours early,
circling the park
and nipping at a bottle
of Thunderbird Wine
I’d bought to take the edge off.
Waste of time, completely!
He winced ‘Hello’
listened for a few minutes,
then interrupted me
with an excuse to leave
with one of those bored
tones strangers use…. like
‘The Bathroom’s On The Right’


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096

Contributor: Paul Tristram

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You have not beaten me.
I am not your victim nor anybody else’s.
You did not win at some contest
or sporting event.
You simply set me Free!
Now, excuse me
whilst I learn from my mistake
and happily get myself
back onto the right path again.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096

Contributor: Paul Tristram

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She screamed “Don’t!”
everyone looked in the direction
of the phone box
she was standing limp in.
Wearing a loose nightie,
open dressing gown
and one furry rabbit slipper.
Ten to midnight
at the busy terminus
at the top end of Town.
She let the telephone
fall from her shaking hand
and slid unladylike
down the glass side
onto the uneven concrete floor.
Where she cried herself silent,
rocking back and fore,
a bubble from her left nostril
augmenting with each shudder.
Some people tutted,
others shook their heads,
a few crossed themselves quickly.
But no one stopped except to gawk,
no one intervened even slightly.
She was left alone to figure it out
by everyone including me.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
She took a fall backwards inside,
clutched both shaking hands
to her palpitating breast
and tried impossibly
to compose herself.
The terrible Ache
which had barrened her heart
and wintered her soul
had finally come to an end.
She had just, a minute or so ago
peed an acceptance
into the sisterhood of motherhood.
And was absolutely useless
for a moment or two
for anything but
overwhelming, spiritual gratitude.
Sometimes God is not
looking the other way
and sometimes massively
important small dreams come true.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Worrying and writing
is all she seems to do these days.
But it’s better than drinking
and ‘Kicking Off’ every 5 minutes
like it used to be before
this inspiration and energy
balmed her frantic mind.
Her husband has a beautiful smile,
she’s only noticed this again recently.
Colours crept back into her life
almost blinding her senses
with their lucid, fucking freshness.
Emotions, Moods, Past, Future
whirl like uncontrollable children’s
spinning tops within her essence,
it really is quite giddying at times.
Yet, she is learning to reign
those stampeding mental horses.
With the typewriter keys
taking control of the dance
more fluidly with practice,
changing the speed, pitch and rhythm
to suit her very own unique flow.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204

Contributor: Paul Tristram

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‘By Hook or by Crook’ only works
when you are out for revenge
or power hungry to such a degree
that no one else’s feelings matter.
Call me old fashioned…
but that isn’t love.
And as she sits all the way back there,
stuck in the past,
dabbing her vindictive selfishness
with too much dewberry.
Hating and lamenting
the slow grind through another
emotionally empty year.
I pat myself upon the back
and think…lucky escape.
Why the Hell would anyone
want to tie their loving heart to that?


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326415204

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Together in tenderness
married by a kiss.
Floating like a whisper
upon a breeze of bliss.
Born unto the universe
children of the night.
To roam God’s graveyard
spirits hungry for flight.

Beneath a cloak of wishes
I wish for you no more.
As we step away from sanctuary
through the nights velvet door.
I echo you with laughter
I share you with a smile.
Along the road of daydreams
we enjoy every mile.

Transfixed to delirium
addicted to the chase.
with purple wings of wonder
I eject sobriety’s slow pace.
Eager for the adventure
promised within your eyes.
I circle squares of reason
to where your passion lies.

The stars beckon us skywards
normality waves farewell.
As we leave behind the nightmare
of this living hell.
Souls winged and ready
eager to break free.
Civilization’s Changelings
re-shaping our destiny.

Hold on to the dreams
for tonight we fly.
On the tail of the impossible
invincible you and I.
This is no flight of fancy
we’re higher than the sky.
Past the moon milestones
yes, tonight we fly!


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
She thinks she’s destroyed me
but there’s cocaine on the mirror.
Bags of skunk and pollen
the fridge is full of beer.

She really has it wrong
for I am doing just fine.
I have a lend of barmaids
my drunken evenings shine.

There’s punk rock on the stereo,
new poems upon my floor.
Commitment’s out the window,
promiscuous as a whore.

I’m out every single night
partying away her shame.
She really tried her hardest
she threw me all the blame.

All the shit left with her
I am now completely free.
I’m fucking great and fantastic
the future belongs to me.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
“Just be brilliant!” she said smiling
“Take everything in your stride.
Yawn away the bores
for they are a waste of time.
Follow your flights of fancy
create a colourful world of your own.
Paint pictures, write poems
sculpt with wood and stone.
Stick 2 fingers up at ‘The Jones’s’
and do things your majestic way.
Just be brilliant!” she said smiling
“You are the king of each new day!”


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
You have all heard all about it,
you have all watched it on TV.
And everyone knows that they
should just leave the Travellers be.
They are doing no one any harm
by wanting a different way of life.
But it shakes the foundations of the reality
you share with your upper class wife.
They are helping the housing problem
by living life in their own way.
But the government won’t listen to reason
it won’t let people have their say.
This is supposed to be a free country?
it is their choice to live on a bus.
Like to live in a town or a city
is a decision which is only down to us?
They should make legal campsites
and just leave the Travellers be.
Instead of closing society’s gates.
we should let them all go free.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Into my chest she runs
then out the other side.
She nearly made it that time
she almost stayed inside.
But I really can’t be bothered
with bastard love and romance.
I’ve had my times of stupidity
I’ve left the idiot’s dance.
I loved so very much once
heart bigger than battleship.
But her selfish submarine
sunk our doomed relationship.
As she shuddered in laughter
I crawled off in disgrace.
Leaving pieces of a broken heart
as my only visible trace.
I hid within a cave
the cave within my soul.
Until the pain was bearable
until my mind was whole.
I came back badly stained
yet, stronger than before.
As love’s last unwanted charge
came crashing through my door.
So here I am now standing
waiting for her second try.
I fill myself with hatred
let her choke herself and die.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
We each went South
in different directions.
After jiving nervously
about the drainpipe inspections.
A garden spade as a walking stick,
a scarecrow’s coat of blue.
A compass in my boot heel
and an empty bladder too.
I zigzagged the public footpath
jumped the boundary fence.
Grabbed a handful of waterfall, running,
fired a sling-shot at common-sense.
Spoke with a hooting owl
argued with a whining vixen.
Bummed a ferry ride with a mermaid
for one feel of my scars friction.
I found the caves of mystery
but I couldn’t pick the gateways lock.
So I tunnelled right on under it
into the chamber of the Honky Tonk Sock.
It lay upon a golden platform
guarded by a witch or three.
I did my thrust and parry, good
until I got the garment free.
I threw it carefully into my knapsack
and skedaddled out of Dodge.
Whip cracked away home in a frenzy
arrived safely at the Anarchy Lodge.
I was given the Princess’s hand for bravery
but had a wank and gave it back.
I had rescued the Honky Tonk Sock
I was the village hero and that’s a fact!


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
The silver coal bucket reflects your beer
as you sit there cocained off your tits.
In a friends house in the countryside
next to a log fire spitting amber bits.
Your left elbow rests in a full ashtray
and your right foot looks too far away.
As you contemplate the coming morning
you stop and let your mind elsewhere stray.
The Damned are playing on the stereo again,
there’s a brass gong hanging on the wall.
The fireplace is a granite Stonehenge
not waiting for a magical druid to call.
Slowly the dawn seeps through the windows,
your friends they rise up from their rest.
A coffee and cooked breakfast for everyone
then again a search for that drunken nest.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Where the hell is Mikey?
Where the hell is Pedro?
Where the hell is Clive?
Where did everybody go?
I’ve woke up in a bus stop
I was sleeping upside down.
Just six Black Sambuca’s
Have ruined a night in town.

I pull out my mobile phone
And give the boys a bell.
Pedro’s walking through a field,
Mikey is not sounding well.
Clive is not answering,
They are feeling just like me.
But they’ve got jobs to go to
While the pub is calling me


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
The day that changed my wife
I just sat there upon the floor.
As she walked by me quickly
on her way to the front door.
There was no need for goodbyes
as her cold eyes had said it all.
Her body which once oozed love
was now as cold as a toilet wall.
Not once did I try to stop her
I just let her go on her merry way.
I let her have her bright future
as my heart slipped into decay.
I did not eat for four days
and I hardly slept a wink.
But now that I’m up and mobile
it’s time to find myself a drink.
The day that changed my wife
happened quite a few days ago.
Of course I thought of suicide
but that would please the whore.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
My pay is in my pocket
My new shirt’s upon my back.
Another week of work is over
Time to give sobriety the sack.
The thirst is taking over
I’ve got that Friday feeling again.
It’s time to lose control
It’s time to go insane.

I’ll take a cold Stella can walk
I’m a one man party cruiser.
All the boys are meeting at eight
In our infamous local boozer.
The police are out in numbers
But that doesn’t bother me tonight.
It’s not trouble with the law, I’m looking for
It’s soberness I want to fight.

Give me cider, give me lager
Give me Newcastle Brown.
I’ll drink them all dry
When I’m out on the town.
No one is going to stop me
I’ve waited all week for this night.
If I remember the end of it
Then it did not end right!

I don’t care what you say
It’s not over when the fat lady sings.
It’s over twenty minutes after
The closing time bell rings.
So Get Them In!


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Contributor: Paul Tristram

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Inertia baby get over here
come straddle my tired face.
Get your lazy arse over here
come dim this depressing place.
Let me feel you pressing down
as we feed upon each other.
Inertia baby get over here
straddle my face and smother.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Upon the sleepless settee
I lay down tonight.
Body tied to exhaustion
Mind still in flight.
I cannot get comfortable
I turn over again and again.
I need sleep, rest, relaxation
But in insomnia I remain.
Through my dead window
The skies brighten to grey.
As my mood darkens to pitch
Birds sing in the new day.
I should have drunk last night
I wouldn’t now be in this Hell.
I would be in oblivion
Unconscious but asleep as well.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Into my prison cell he stole
with his greedy little mind.
He pulled apart my bed pack
to see what he could find.
Searched every nook and cranny
until he found my radio.
Then with a sickly smile
he crept back out the door.
Last time it was my tobacco
before that my bar of soap.
But tomorrow I am going sick,
I’ll be waiting with a rope.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Contributor: Paul Tristram

- -
Tear up all of the windows
I do not want the outside.
Tear up all of the windows
they spoil the nice inside.
I don’t need to have a view
for my imagination will do.
World, you simply annoy me
I am now finished with you.
I only want peace and quiet
my life it could be sweet.
If I did not have to see
that cold and dirty street.
Leave me with my solitude
yeah, go on and leave me be.
Why do you not understand?
every visitor’s killing me.
Go and tell the neighbours
That I’ll have to complain.
If I ever catch a glimpse
of their nosey faces again.
Tear up all of the windows
go and throw them all away.
For then, at last, just maybe
I’ll have a nice sunny day.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.