Paul Tristram

Those Shadows are Quiet
-ly Mad today…
and there is
an Owl Shriek
about to happen
somewhere…
(uncomfortable).
I asked her for the time
and she wept
“Sorry, young man…
I was lost in thought
… counting back
lonely years
like snagged tree rings.”
“You’re Beautiful”
I replied
“The Universe has
misjudged and dealt
you wrong… please,
accept their Apologies.”
Our sad smiles Clashed
before I turned away
… GUILTY…
‘Clever Words’…
break Hearts not fix them.

… even the drug-dirt beneath your fingernails reeks of us, baby…

We [Just] ‘Go Together’, yeah
… like Crack/Cocaine abuse,
blown Heart Valves and
Nasal Reconstructive Surgery.
She’s the pretty-tipsy-swish
to my sleazy-drunken-sway
… the Smash to my Grab…
we ‘Mirror’ each other both
Negatively and Hysterically.
Encouraging the ‘SHINE’
in our FLAWS… we Push,
we Fall… we Join, where
the ‘normal folk’ step over
our gutter-kerbside romance.
Hand-in-hand we’re a RIOT
… apart… we’ll purposely
get Arrested… just to Speak
‘Sweet [Insane] Nothings’
through cold Police Cell walls.

If I was Impressed I’d Smile,
Annoyed I’d Laugh…
but, your Proselytizing
is bringing out only Silence.
Metanoia is not ‘Repentance’
she is a lady of ‘Regret’
… and is far more relatable
than Kairos [Unfortunately].
I’ve spent 7 days Fasting
everything but ‘Symbols’
… I’m far outside
the GRASP of Persuasion…
and WOBBLING around
upon the fragile platform
of this calm [Inner] Patience.
I’ve Discovered something
a ‘Knowledge’ Hidden
inside a creaking-doored
Solitude… and I would like
to share my new Miracle…
but, you just will not Shut Up.

Whoops, I nearly broke my neck
upon that discarded Love Egg
… where were we?
oh yes, I was right here, wasn’t I.
Ouch, that’s pinching… careful
with those ‘Personal Questions’.
Nah, I’m staying for a bit
… I like watching you dressing,
whilst my ‘Emotions’ are settling.
Oh, long stripy socks, for sure
… ask a Punk Rocker, innit.
Aw, all my hats suit you…
except that one, I’m only jesting
… you look Cute-As-A-Button.
It’s not my fault that
‘One More Time For The World’
and ‘I’m Gonna Be Late’…
get me all Excited-As-Fuck again.
20 more minutes, my darling…
then I’m leaving half-dressed
down the back [Dodgy] drainpipe
… just to show your neighbours
how ‘Hot’ you really fucking are!

I’ll trade a Sampson Mordan
ruby glass vinaigrette bottle
a third full of the heartbroken
tears of a ‘tricked’ virgin
3 weeks away from dollymop
… for some dry powder,
a skull & bones Gate-Pass…
and a partway-sincere kiss.
Nah, stay away from Uptown
… the house burglary
turned nasty, ugly and fatal
… you can smell the Murder
across most of the Borough.
Let Sammy know I’m ‘round,
I’ll be in the Jack O’ Spades
just afore midnight next
with The Dockside Knives
… they’re inching Territory.
Ha! they not be sex manacle
wrist-wounds… I’m villain…
they only proper heal in Clink.
Later, yeah… be lucky, girl…
yer looking more and more
like yer dear old mother
with each passing 12 month
… I drank so much Belch
I lost two toes and a finger…
the day they swung her Dead.

“… no-no, don’t Corner me, please…
you’re the one with the ‘Words’
… I’ve not been avoiding… you,
I’ve been periphery hovering
… nah, thank you, this ‘Distance’
is good… and necessary…
your ‘Fluidity’ is quite unnerving.
OMG… you’re actually
using ‘Patience’ and ‘Politeness’
as Chess-Moving Weapons
… don’t ‘Smile’… oh dear.
Yes, she explained to you, right?
… aye, ‘Vasovagal’… it’s a bitch.
As long as you stay… Over There
… I’ll be just fine… jittery though,
did we just actually ‘Tune-In’?
Like a straining dog on a leash
… what a bizarre feeling…
it kicked-off in adolescence
… I always hated it until right now.
Oooh, she’s right about you…
you talk with your fingers too
… mhm, me also, very much…
thanks for being such a Gentleman…”

The feel of ‘drizzle’
upon the bottom
of naked feet
after shoulder-squeezing
under the ‘drip’
… is like
smoothly whipped custard
and liquid crayons…
embracing enthusiastically.
Don’t stop me now
… for fuck sake,
outta the way whilst I
whoooooooossssh!
We’ve captured ‘falling’
inside a delicate ‘feeling’
… matchbox it for later.
I see no discarded eggshells?
… controlled ‘mayhem’

tuned-in-so-tight-it’s-breath-taking

complicated self-harm…
and the violence of cackle.
The ‘trick’ is to ‘open’
before you get
your ‘narrow’ on, yeah
… and slide
at the exact moment
that others stall.
Now, study memory later
… present tense is ‘energy’
let’s limbo barbed wire
deeper-in… tut-tut,
me first… or I’ll hurt you.

I stand under no-one else’s umbrella
… I owe nothing to anyone,
except… point-blank Cold Shoulder.
I speak through hawk-plumage,
and in razors-so-sharp… you bleed,
internally, later
… when I have removed myself
far from ‘Suspect’ musical-chair.
I don’t ‘Wager’ I ‘Take’ and Leave
… ‘Vantage Points’ Trapped.
I say the word ‘Tangerine’ often,
it sickens me… but, it reassures,
fools of some childhood thing or other
… and disguises the Predator,
hiding behind that false colour,
shape, and texture… STRIKE!
‘Unbalance’ differs with onion-layers,
the surgery of Interest,
works better dressed in a uniform
of cold, almost theatrical Indifference.
I salute you, fake-sincerely
… a traceless smile within my
heart-that-pumps-nothing-but-piss…
as I lead you forward whilst following.

The word ‘Bellowing’
is a lion’s yawn,
in imagery.
Her hands are timeless,
when kneading dough
… I can see
her shifting ‘Costumes’
back through the ages,
as her fingers work.
Dogs always look like
‘That’ when scratching
… and 3 flying ducks
hung above a fireplace,
always make me feel
nostalgic, & homesick
for the ‘Childhood’
that I should have had.

Wow, and absolutely fucking Wow again!
Last time I saw her…
it was a mugshot in the local newspaper,
dirty hair all-dragged-up in a scalp-bunch
crowning a drawn, scabby, drug-face.
She’d just been given Anger Management,
and a 12-month Conditional Discharge,
with £150 in Fine and Court Costs…
for taking an ex-girlfriend hostage,
and threatening to slice off her perfect toes…
First Offense, and a looming stint in Rehab
… legally, it sounded about ‘Even’ to me.
That must have been over a year ago now
… and I just clocked her swishing, oh yeah,
fucking Swishing her way up the High Street.
Face all full and healthy, eyes glistening,
crap-British-sunshine bouncing off her hair
… and wearing a thin floral, cotton dress,
that would look shit on anybody else but her.
There was a trail of heads a-turning behind
(both male & female) as she swaggered by.
She half-smiled, as she passed me standing
“Wotcher, Pauly… long time no see, hunni.”
I reciprocated the warm affection right back
“Just keep doing what you’re doing, love…
because Lady Luck is your bitch right now.”