Paul Tristram

…and without a shadow,
or a ghost of a conscience to speak of.
He strikes an England’s Glory matchstick
across a [NO SMOKING] sign,
with a theatrical flair, and arrogance…
which sensitive folk can taste upon the air
for a good, full mile radius.
He cups, tattooed-knuckled hands,
beneath the rim of a Herbert Johnson’s
(Nunquam Non Paratus)
grave-dark, razor-sharp trilby,
courtesy of New Bond Street, London,
setting light to a Lebanese Black laced,
expertly crafted, Old Holborn roll-up.
He exhales a loose skull & crossbones,
and smirks, in a complicated manner…
then, whistling Smetana’s ‘The Moldau,’
as the night-time rain visually electrifies
the outline of his swaggering aura,
he sets off, at an ambling-gait…
in your general direction.
Why? Well, the word on the cobbles
is that he’s bought your ‘Karmic Debt,’
and the ‘Cashing-In’ of such a matter
always promises to be an Alchemic mix
of the Sublime and Psycho/Fantastical.

Dear God, what have I become?
I absolutely adore the shit,
grime, stench, and rot of the Dark Levels.
I am a Spiritual Masochist,
that eeeccchhhoooo-ing mental anguish
is almost addictive…
it tastes of partly healed sore-scabs,
and has a rough texture,
not brittle like sandpaper,
it’s softer, more of a wet suede.
I was only young when I first witnessed
someone whom I cared about
erupt into insanity and violence…
the entire world stood still,
and they were the centre of everything,
a furious, miraculous, magical opera…
like a Tornado tangoing with an Avalanche.
That’s Passion, I’ve never seen
someone that much alive, it was perfect.
I’m smoking her dog-ends…
as she thief-rifles through my empty pockets…
all is as it should be, again.
This is not a detour, nor a destination,
deplorable and despicable, yes…
but, it’s more than merely an experiment,
I’m potholing the soul,
jackhammering my nucleus,
tearing apart the delicate underneath,
and ripping out my own emotional intestines
to feel, to feel… to FEEL!!!
Where did it all go wrong?
I don’t want to go back and fix it,
I want to do it all over again, bigger.
I broke a tender part of myself,
and I feel NOTHING, except interest
as I watch it grow back armour-like.
Dragging my own ‘Sunshine’
through the filth and slop of The Gutter,
applauding the Rain,
which actually washes away nowt,
but in fact, just makes everything messier…
oooh, I feel a connection, of a sorts, at last…
pass me on over the debauching bottle,
and this bleak afternoon’s distancing dynamite.

Spinning Grandfather clock hands for eyes,
you ‘Awww’ my ‘Wow’, indefinitely.
Ooophs, there goes another chimney pot
cracking from the fireplace
of my defenceless, little ol’ heart.
I’m starting to drip, stutter, and show-off
at exactly the same time.
You aRChed your back, Bastard…
whilst I’m trying to unmess my unravel.
I’ve ‘Held Hands’ before, but this
is something far more complicated and superior.
I’m trying to find where you end and begin…
but, I’m lost, completely?
You ‘Smile’ with the precision of a sniper rifle!
This hurts, in a delightful kinda way.
You make ‘Storms & Teacups,’
‘Mountains & Molehills’ disappear
whenever you are near…
and then wrecking ball SLAM
back into place when you up and walk away.

“Did you just ask me to take you back
with a declaration of undying love,
promising to never drink again,
and to change your insane ways?
Culminating with the absolute classic
(I cannot wait to tell my friends & family),
and I quote, ‘Even If You Say No,
I will Always Carry Around A Flame
For You Somewhere Deep In Cider Me’
Seriously? You’re… ludicrous,
get away from my front door step right now,
before I throw down something hard
& heavy upon that idiotic head of yours…
you’re winding me up, completely!
You’re lucky my brothers ain’t home…
or, after rolling ‘round in absolute hysterics,
you’d get the hiding of your life… Twat!”

… after spitting disgust into the eye of Convention.
With brain upon a different plane,
he ‘Followed The Lead’ nowhere.
Sitting upon a solitary rock
with defiant back to the herd animals…
scratching at his own ankle
made much more sense
than arguing the obvious merits of individualism.
‘Manicured Lawns’ are obscene’ he mused…
and ‘The Joneses’ an idiot-circle
where both energy and money are channelled
into a merry-go-round of petty pointlessness.
An honest-to-god unique thought
would cripple some folk
and frighten to death most others within their vicinity.
Pets, and Slaves, and Hurdles, and Stepping Stones…
the Rules were made up by people already in Power.
Blind pawns in another man’s game…
I use the word ‘No’ in its true meaning,
and refuse to dilute the Magic in my beautiful Soul,
jigsaw-piece fitting myself into a Machine
which has no room for personal meaning nor feeling.

Rinse and fucking repeat…
why do you keep doing this to yourself?
There is something important,
fundamental, broken inside of you,
but the doctors either can’t find it,
or simply do not understand.
AA only gets some of it right,
there’s more, it’s deeper…
spiritual, like a damn soul-sickness,
a pox, curse and cancer of the mind.
How long will they keep you in this time?
It won’t be more than necessary,
not like when you were in your prime,
and they enjoyed trying to torture you…
now you’re labelled ‘Chronic’
and more an annoyance than a challenge.
One more Styrofoam cup of lukewarm water,
and the SHAKES are shifting gear.
You spit upon your grubby fingers,
and use it to rub the dried blood
off your ghost-like face.
Not for appearance sake,
but, because when you are released,
you already know,
that your first steps of freedom
are taking you to one of two places…
the nearest barstool,
or, depending upon how many pennies
you have in ‘Property’ … shoplifting first.

editors note: It’s an acute flair-up, or a drawn out affliction. Either way, take your meds and move on. – mh clay

With the Dogs Of War hot upon my demented heels,
Fire and Brimstone raging through my veins.
“Two Wrongs Do Not Make A Right”
parroted Hope and Charity to Vengeance…
who stood slouching at the bar, cackling,
and waving a wanking-hand in their direction.
As I hammer down coffin nails
into the face of modern poetry…
Springtime Butterflies and Birds Of Peace
become carrion for the exiled Ravens
from the asylum watchtower to feast upon.
A psychiatrist scribbles a signature
under the patient’s case notes,
takes a mid-afternoon Prozac
and quietly unravels in-between appointments.
This is the REAL fucking world, sunshine…
where policemen don’t save people,
they beat them to death.
Sinking women make themselves widows.
People are not scared of spiders,
nightmares and bogeymen anymore,
but, of their very own friends and family.
Sadists sit protected behind bulletproof glass
at the far end of ever growing Welfare queues.
Soup-Runs are accused of encouraging rough sleepers…
and some bright spark invented The Homeless Spike.
Gun crime in Mainland Britain
is rising almost as fast as obesity…
‘I want a revolver and alcohol for Christmas, Santa,
it’s what every other kid in my school is having.’
I saw a middle-aged man, with no legs, in a wheelchair
at the Citizens Advice Bureau, crying like a baby,
because ATOS had just declared him fit for work
“You Can Get A Job Answering Phones”
This world isn’t just going down the pan,
it has been in the fucking thing for decades…
we’re all just stewing in the rot and stench.
‘God Is Dead’ claimed Nietzsche,
aye, and if the Devil existed he’d be unemployed too…
both of them are not needed in the mix.
It’s human fucking beings doing this to each other,
time and time again…
we’re the only animal on this planet
who robs, murders and destroys…
for many dark and twisted reasons
and not a single one of them is to simply just Survive.

There is waiting tragedy birthed
in the tenderest of kisses.
Some folk love war and vice versa.
STOP signs make my amble turn to rush.
Fidgeting works the same, physically,
in both ‘Fight’ or ‘Flee’ scenarios.
She ripped down the drapes
one sunny Winter’s afternoon
and screamed hysterically
“I’m Suffocating!”
no one even stopped to ponder.
They don’t seek to destroy uncultivated land…
you can use this to your advantage.
‘Obnoxious’ is a Label not a Trait…
if you insist upon gaining the attention
of someone who doesn’t give a fuck for you…
then I see only one arsehole there.
Don’t juggle anything you won’t miss,
catch, or which cannot be replaced.
She’s cold again… it’ll keep her safe awhile.
He dipped the till, got caught, then complained?
I have only one ‘Hangover’ left to cash in this week,
and I am yet to disturb or ruin anything.
‘Time’ isn’t money, it’s a loss,
each second ticking away
and drifting behind you into memory…
make ‘em count, and matter… or don’t.
I was ‘Born To Raise Hell’
but lost my footing along the way,
and ended up for awhile on a chain gang,
scribbling down sonnets and spells,
instead of smashing my raging fists
into the face of each new day.

He sat upon a Victoria Gardens bench
feeding origami pigeons
crumbs of broken solitude.
Someone was flying a kite nearby
with Mona Lisa’s face
hovering sarcastically upon it…
‘Very Disconcerting And Unnecessary’
were his thoughts upon the matter.
Glancing right, down the primrosed path…
he saw a Wise Man, evading capture,
by chameleoning in
with the Council magnolia crowd
and keeping his Secrets safe
from blossoming and butterflying
out into the open Magnificently
in front of the ever vigilant, vulture eyes.
With a clapping of hands,
the paper birds took flight,
forming an almost perfect heart shaped cloud
of A4 ruled and margined,
2 hole punched, wing feathers…
adorable in its fire hazard abstractness.
He sighed, as was his wont,
and decided firmly
that the rewards of ‘People Watching’
simply do not outweigh the negatives.
Removing his hat and shoes,
he gave them, insistently, to a passing Beggar.
Then silently sauntered off
in the opposite direction
that everyone else
seemed to be blindly and unconsciously going in.

Juggling scissors, wearing her best dress.
‘Red’ is not just a colour but an attitude.
Your daisy chain smile
is merely a collection of misprints
stuck to the entrance of a hollow rock.
She loved his veins, they never lied once…
whilst the rest was made up of smoke and shadows.
It’s raining again, of course it is…
for your hooded eyes are cast longingly elsewhere.
This ‘Blood Sport’ spills
and is ruining such delicate emotions.
Sandpaper smooth, as always…
the Bite is almost soothing
after the insane fury of the Bark.
There’s such depth to your anger,
you could pothole it and get lost forever…
whilst your love remains without a proper pulse,
Stepmother mirror gazing,
and as flat and clinical as a hospital sheet piss-stain.