Paul Tristram

A Solitary Drinker

 

It’s not ever done for celebration.
There’s no cheer to his slurring voice.
Two of the main components
of the expression ‘Wine, Women & Song’
are partying at a separate location.
He’ll smoke that prison-thin roll-up
right down to the yellow bone,
wincing snarling white-knuckled ghosts
up from his raging throat.
Sometimes wall-casting empty bottles
without actually realizing who’s to blame?
Confuses an already muddled mind
and unfortunately sobers him up slightly.
It’s like he’s in the ring squaring up
to himself and neither one’s backing down.
Arguing with his own reflection and losing.
Trying to work out exactly what’s
imprisoning and gnawing at his soul?
When it’s obvious to everyone…it’s him!

 

© Paul Tristram 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ll Be Fawning My Way Back To You

 

As soon as I get caught.
Hit another wall.
Fuck up good and proper.
Fall flat upon my face.
Get myself into
so much trouble
that I am
emotionally drowning
and need you
as my rock to cling to.
When the breakdown
comes…
so must YOU!
With your loving,
loyal caring arms
and your never ending
compassion,
patience
& understanding.
At those times
I fully realize
just how lucky I am
to have you always
standing there
in my corner.
But until then,
you need to
back off a bit
while I’m doing
my thing, y’all.
You’re cramping
my style
& boring me
to tears, Motherfucker!

 

© Paul Tristram 2016

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sundays Don’t Look The Same Anymore

 

Empty like a spent chamber.
Stark as scarecrows
anticipating flame to follow.
OCD and badly broken pebbles.
My God! I’m cliff-leaping… inside.
The rings of age are smearing
the logic of today’s reason.
Hands which never snatch
are cleverer yet colder.
It’s just so impenetrable sometimes
from thought, communication
and onwards into hostility.
As the changeling heart
denies a granite employment.
And forget-me-lots
bloom around a drunken bar
of fallen ‘once’ heroes.
There are no winners,
the game’s evaporated.
Luck left as quickly
as it once ventured.
The taste of old pennies
and sepia memories
are all that now remain
within this ever falling rain.

 

© Paul Tristram 2016

 

 

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