Poetry from – PAUL TRISTRAM

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Life Is Not Like A Box Of Chocolates At All



It’s like a record of nursery rhymes

being dragged backwards

revealing Satanic messages

mocking and goading you into

self sabotage and emotional annihilation.

Nothing in your starving cupboards

but that same old ‘big bag of dicks’.

Sexually transmitted diseases and diabetes

town-stalking you on Valentine’s Day.

A crack in your only beer glass, Jesus!

The constantly parroted, multi-voiced “No!”

Guilty until proven a little bit less guilty

(At which point nobody really cares anymore!)

False friendships without benefits.

The comfort of underachieving.

2 + 2 = complications and migraines.

‘The End Is Nigh’ is the future waving

and confused deathbed cries of

“What the fuck was that all about?”


© Paul Tristram 2016




Drawing On Desperation


Sometimes that is all that you have got left,

yet, there is an energy to this too,

if you can just focus and use it to your advantage

before it dissipates into apathy.

Desperation is not a nice feeling

but you can Drive that Bastard

before it Drives You,

off to those dark, negative places.

Grab that bitch of a wheel, take control,

learn to manoeuvre the stalking madness,

steer down those panicking rapids,

gear change and side-corner your way out of there.

Sometimes merely Surviving is enough

and not Losing Today

means that you are setting yourself up

to Winning one of your approaching Tomorrows.


© Paul Tristram 2015




Your True Colours Are Making Me Vomit


So that’s what all the mask-wearing’s for!

I only just realized exactly what the word

‘Vile’ means, up until then I thought (Silly me!)

that it was to describe mediocre things

like ‘That Food Doesn’t Taste Very Nice’

or ‘The Dogshit That You’ve Just Stepped In’.

I’m actually cringing at my own naivety

and innocence in such diabolical matters.

Ah, that explains the lashing out

and picking holes in random people…Insecurity.

I mean, you are bound to be insecure

carrying that ‘Picture Of Dorian Grey’

around with you inside, all of the time, right.

I’m starting to understand, well, in a car crash

sort of way, where you want to have a peek

but your natural, decent impulse is to flee

as far away from the ugliness of it as possible.

It’s a shame they don’t do ‘Soul Transplants’

or  ‘Personality Cosmetic Surgery’ but they don’t.

Oooh, it’s frustrating just thinking about it

so I’m going to stop now, I’m just really relieved

that the repulsive problem isn’t mine in the slightest.


© Paul Tristram 2015




Only My Fucking Soul


No, I absolutely disagree with you!

That is not the right way of doing it at all,

it’s simply your way.

Don’t you dare try to direct me,

I have a brain of my own, you know.

I’m not being an arsehole…you are!

Who’s up in who’s biscuit here?

You don’t know what’s best for me,

stop being so ridiculous.

I don’t need your help,

there wasn’t a problem until you appeared.

I don’t need you to explain,

you’re not clearing anything up,

your just making a mess all by yourself.

You just want to see me happy, really?

Ok then, see that door over there?

Trot on through it and go bother someone else.

There’s nothing here for you

but a big old bunch of Middle Fingers.


© Paul Tristram 2015




The Phantom Sycophant (The Revenge Of!)


I’ll win your attention with fake admiration,

I’m a master at it and here’s some I prepared earlier.

Stroke your Ego’s dick just so J

until I’m the very favourite of your ‘Narcissistic Supply’

Butter you up with exaggerations,

smile widely…I mean frown deeply

and shake my condescending head caringly

when you are not getting your own way L

Aww, you are just like a pet puppy and a Superior

all rolled up into one temperamental bundle.

And when those crocodile tears don’t work

and give way to real ones, I get a cute little glimpse

of that shocking pain and vulnerability.

I see the frightened little, wounded child you really are,

all alone in that normally hidden corner of your soul

and I swear it makes me fucking drip,

I’m addicted to that pathetic, lushest bullseye, yummy!


© Paul Tristram 2015





Is This Just Your ‘Lying Sack Of Shit’ Phase?


Right outside of Superdrug in the Shopping Centre,

Christmas shoppers manic, aggressive and obnoxious,

elbow to elbow in all directions.

She stopped a little ahead of me and screamed

like ‘happening roadkill’

“Is this just your ‘Lying Sack of Shit’ phase?

because, stick a fucking fork in me, I’m so done with it!”

Then she threw the phone to the ground with a loud crack

and preceded to stamp up and down upon it.

A Security Guard rushed on over,

she wasn’t dragged away like a shoplifter

but directed away firmly by the shaking arm, muttering

“I’m so sorry but the man is killing me slowly inside

with illogical, irrational, unnecessary mind games.

I’ve swapped the love inside my heart

for a torture chamber within my poor crestfallen soul!”


© Paul Tristram 2015



paul smoking

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

You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

*Photo courtesy of Brian Michael Barbeito.*

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