Paul Tristram

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.”

My, my, my, I almost made the delicious
Sunflower Sky explode, lushly,
whilst romantically reminiscing
about our ‘Lover’s Tryst’
in that bit of woodland waste ground
out the back of the Abortion Clinic,
back in good ol’ 1969
… yeah, I know neither one of us
was actually born yet, but in cosmic terms,
it was but an excitable, Energy Preface,
to our coming meeting and courtship
this side of the Eternal Spiritual River.

I like how our ‘Chain-Links’
work only by way of ‘Mutual Will’ alone,
how our Thoughts leG-Up each other
over Mental Walls and Barriers
… and how BOTH our Lips
taste exactly like apple-and-plum-pie
the very moment we smirk whilst kissing.

…I garrotted myself, fantastically
with despicable arrogance.
Laughing, dementedly,
at the little, innocent boy
I have ‘Dorian Gray’s Painting’
locked away inside my Soul
…who always gets to pay
the twisted, fucked-up price
of the punishment for my Sins.
That ‘Pulsing’ between Pain
is sticky to the mental-touch,
and extremely addictive…
it sense-smells of yawning,
falling, and broken cockle shells.
It’s almost that time of the month
where I go completely insane…
it’s got fuck-all to do with lunar,
that erratic-thought napalm
has gotta come out at some point.
I was twenty steps behind her,
I froze [Silently] upon the pavement
…and she spun around smiling
“How long have you been there?”
We demand the Truth
until we become an ingredient
in that [Complicated] equation.
We went on a night-time picnic,
we ate amphetamine-bombs,
drank ancient French red wine
and carved blood-flowers
into our post-sex, pale white skin.
“There are no Time-Keepers here”
I whispered, between, distant sighs.
“Only Collectors Of Memories”
she said, confirming, everything.
“I didn’t want to be a Ballerina
back when I was a young girl…
I just wanted to find other folk
who viewed things, sideways,
and felt with their beating-hearts
instead of black-and-white minds.”
I have a ‘Penny Jar’ at my abode
with a label written in calligraphy
‘For All Those Future Experiments
& Experiences Worth Remembering’
and no matter how much money I insert
it’s almost always close to being empty…

Oi! matey, yeah, I’m a-talking to you…
with the pirate swagger going on,
leave your cutlass in the weapon’s rack
out in the cloakroom, please.
Same goes for your battle-axe,
Mr. Brick ‘Outhouse,
with the horns on his cap.
We’ve got quite a few
nasty viruses running ‘bout the place,
I’ll have you know,
and the last thing we need is paper cuts.
Oh lovely, the Waiting Room’s
choc-a-bloc this afternoon,
mind you, we’re still dealing
with all that tailback
from this morning’s nightmare…
one trollop from the Dock Area
completely decimated
the 40 Thieves Gang.
Anyway, it’s Cindy, our Receptionist’s,
21st Birthday today,
we had a bit of a finger-buffet
during our Lunch Break…
and she’s been kind enough
to lay the leftovers out for you all…
but for Christ Sake, use the box
of disposable gloves afore dipping-in, OK.
Now, my name’s Victoria,
and I’ll be leading you on through,
one at a time, in an orderly fashion…
let’s start with the ‘Explosive Element’
… leaking, have we got any ‘Leakers’ in?

Swaggering up the Evening’s Thoroughfare,
then staggering back lanes come the morning
… I’ve started audio-hallucinating Sirens?
There are many different meanings to a ‘Smile’
when living between the Emergency Rooms,
Public Taverns, and City’s Custody Suites
… and not one of them resembles Happiness.
Yesterday, I caught myself, a-flirting
absent-mindedly, whilst cadging a fag,
with an unkempt, wearily-pretty thing
stood smoking outside the STD Clinic gates
… she chuckled, cutely, when she observed
‘Reality’ finally invade my bloodshot eyes.
I am a ‘Gutter-Sponge’ of the darkest order,
my purpose is to Absorb and Regurgitate.
Society gets the poetry it fucking-well deserves
… and I’m the Bastard, Step-child of that Fury.

This pocketful of dodgy sunshine
was not developed
via the nuances of patience…
I’m a Street-Grafter, innit.
I’ve got a ‘Heart Of Gold’, mate,
in fact, I’ve two of ‘em…
I acquired one Debt Collecting,
and t’other bleeder’s
just lodging at me gaff, like,
whilst a tea-leaf acquaintance
wastes his days on Remand
awaiting poxy final Sentencing.
‘The Early Bird Catches The Worm’
I was told, as a nipper,
back in Reform School.
I ate that ‘Bird’ between two
thick slices of half-inched bread
which the local Magistrate’s wife
had cooling on a back windowsill…
and I’ve been a-livin’ by me cheek,
and very own ‘Jack-The-Lad’
codes and morals ever since…
so stick that in yer pipe and smoke it!

…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.