Paul Tristram

Cerddi pum

 

 

 

Home Goaling Life’s Goals

 

Stinging is that bitch-slap

you’ve delivered yourself.

Yet, it is merely a ripple

upon shallow water

compared to the alcoholic

ruin throning your soul.

The first time you ate

from that degrading,

grovelling table

you were not hungry

just deserving.

Nowadays you choke

trying to fill a hole

bottomless & buckling

wider with each cruel day

they sentence you into breathing.

Alone with the terror of knowing

that there is no cure,

not all problems have answers,

solutions or remedies.

Sometimes that fracture inside

is just doing what it’s supposed to.

And cradling your desperation

is all you have left to sustain you.

 

                        

 

People… Fuck People!

 

“You’re lucky, I’m having one of my lucid moments.

Are you recording this?”

 

“Erm, no… I’m just…”

 

“Well, you should be, ya dig what I’m saying?

Anyway, look at them all fidgeting

around The Common Room.

High anxiety, Visiting Time’s approaching

and everyone’s doing a mental war dance

upstairs in their scrambled minds.

Extra tranquillizers all round, Nurse.

These folk ain’t ‘Doolally’, no sir.

They’re just vulnerable and over sensitive.

Could have happened to anyone out there

with feelings, empathy and a heart.

The ‘People’ did this to them,

mean-spirited, selfish, horrible people…

and families seem to be the worst.

They like a ‘Good Torture’ them Sadistic Bastards!

See the Bag Lady with the cuddly toys…

Step Father used to come home angry,

pick up the family pets and snap their backs

right over his knee in front of the children.

The young Pale Girl… wanted to be a Ballerina,

Mother used to stub out packets of cigarettes,

one by one on the bottom of her feet.

Old Derek over there… the worse stutter

you’ve ever seen or heard and allergic to custard.

Makes his whole face swell up

like he’s shoved it into an ants nest for half hour…

guess how they punished his speech impediment?

The ‘Girl In The Corner With No Name

Who Keeps Setting Fire To Her Own Hair’…

I’m not even going to start telling you

what happened to her (Spit!)

The first time I heard it in Group Therapy

God disintegrated from my very soul.

Visiting Time… the Torturer’s return, more like.

They’ve come to pull triggers and press buttons,

take their ‘Bad Day’ out on something helpless.

They’re too cowardly to step into a ring,

these punch bags don’t hit back or call for help.

Those pills don’t stop them being ‘Crazy’

they stop them from being ‘Too Emotional’

from ‘Reacting Naturally’ to ‘Cruelty’.

It’s all a Con and the Predators are walking free

and are being kept updated on the Patients/Victims

progress or relapse by the confidential Doctors.

Are you recording all this… because you should be?”

 

“No, I’m sorry… I’m just here to fix the TV.”

 

 

 

Do The Fandango, Bitch!

 

She came out of nowhere,

hit her from behind with a chair.

Then raised it up above her head

and slammed it down again.

Jesus, things broke, I mean,

you could hear them

snapping and splintering

and not all of it was wood.

There was this aura, electricity

coming off her, scary as fuck.

She grabbed 2 Heineken bottles

and leap astride her like an animal,

pissing with fury as she squatted down.

I’ve never seen anything like it

in my entire life, stuff of horror films.

She smashed the bottles over her head,

then started jabbing the broken edges

into her face, an eye popped out.

It all happened in seconds,

by the time the Bouncers appeared

and dragged her crazy ass off

the girl’s dead and she’s screaming

“You don’t do the fandango

with my man, bitch,

and motherfucking get away with it.

Just wait until they find him at home,

I left him chewing upon his own dick!”

 

 

 

Harmonized Hatred

 

Wrath and Envy fuel and consume each other,

like a serpent swallowing its own tail.

Until tuning to a pitch black negativity,

become an all consuming, destructive force,

causing a leprosy and shallowness of the Soul.

Where Ruin, Violence and Murder of Innocents

becomes Justified, Warranted and Acceptable.

The prisons, madhouses and graveyards

are full to bursting with those pathetic enough

and selfish enough to despise each Wonder

not internally created and credited as their own.

 

 

 

Submerged In Sadness

 

She paints glorious sunrises

of Van Gogh yellows

and devastatingly beautiful sunsets

of Hieronymus Bosch oranges.

It’s a bit like blood-letting

or leeching the Soul.

Sweeping away the internal shadows

with a creative broom.

Introspection without focus

and artistic expression

is Depression’s aching Terminus.

And she almost daily

travels inwards to get further outwards

from the fog of herself.

To swap a furrowed brow

for concentration instead of worry

is a priceless skill for one to know.

Sometimes it’s the only thing

to keep you afloat,

down driftwood-clung mental vistas,

kicking away the grasping hands

lurking awfully

within the murky depths below.

 

 

 

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 book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096