Paul Tristram

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Fuck The Kama Sutra

“Fuck the Kama Sutra!” He declared, lividly…
as he approached the Public Bar,
letting the door BANG shut behind him.
“What the hell was Gavin The Giro thinking
giving us ‘That’ as a wedding present?
Jesus Christ… why not something useful,
like a dildo, homebrew kit or knife, eh?
We’re simple people, you know…
I’ve got a big screen on the opposite wall
for us to watch a little porn,
a vibrating bed, the size of a boat,
complete with leopard-print headboard,
a couple of furry dice hanging off the lightshade,
and a fully mirrored ceiling.
That used to be enough, once upon a time,
now her head’s full of fucking nonsense.
I’m the ‘One’ getting headaches
and starting arguments
at the most inappropriate moments
all of a sudden… I’ve had enough.
Reduced to wanking behind her back
like I’m still a damned school boy.
He’d better stay outta my road, I swear!
I’m a Beer Drinking Champion…
not an athlete, acrobat or fucking contortionist!”

… Of These Streets

I was born of these streets.
The dirty gutters, full to the brim,Artwork by Gene McCormick
with broken dreams
and unfulfilled wishes,
flow through my raging veins.
Heart a back lane Brothel
on fire at midnight,
as the clock bell strikes into the Sabbath.
Abortion & Clap Clinics,
Job Centres, Dole Queues,
Cash Converters, Betting Shops,
The Samaritans & Soup Kitchens
are the Altars at which we desperately pray.
Vacations come in liquid, powder or pill form.
Love and Pity do not exist!
The Loan Shark is King
and we’re all Slaves
to the Underbelly of his Hierarchy.
Prison is the only temporary Freedom,
a Holiday if you will,
the last time I saw a sunset upon the horizon
and waves gently lapping
upon a picturesque shoreline…
was through a barred Swansea cell window.

“Time To Get Drunk, Deranged & Completely Off My Fucking Trolley!”

He said to himself, as he stumbled clumsily
down the front steps of the Police Station.
Wearing only one flip-flop
and camouflage knee-length shorts in February.
Folding up a Bail Form pocket-size,
he glanced behind himself
at a cute chick’s short-skirted arse…
and walked straight into a lamppost,
with a stunning SMACK!
Shaking it off, as if it was nothing at all,
he stepped out into the road,
looking the wrong way in both directions
and nearly got hit by a red double-decker bus.
The driver slammed on the brakes,
screeched noisily to a halt,
shook a clenched fist out of the side window
and shouted the word “Arsehole!”
He merely smiled back and waved, friendly,
whilst carrying on across the road,
over and into The Boiling Kettle Arms.
I was pissing myself laughing and stated
“I wanna be just like that when I grow up properly.”
“Fuck off!” sighed Gypsy,
shaking his head wearily “That’s my fucking father!”

Frederick Pearson Drank A Half Pint Of Her Piss Down In One
& Then Set Fire To The Bus

Him and Johnny Binbags went in the back
entrance of The Rover’s Arms,
to use the shitter and wash
the homelessness from their faces.
As they were heading back out,
a couple of street urchins
appeared at the main entrance.
One of them held open the door,
whilst the other little fucker
sprinted the 4ft to the corner of the bar,
cut the chain holding the
‘Support The Lifeboats’ donation box,
and had it away on his toes.
It’s noon, one geezer behind the bar
and he’s vaulted the wood
and is giving chase,
with a customer in tow.
When it had happened,
he’d just brought a 12 bottle case of whisky
from out the back
and it’s now left open on top of the bar.
Frederick doesn’t fuck about
fishing a bottle out of there,
he simply swipes the entire shebang.
They’re back to The Waste Ground
(Where everyone’s been skippering down)
a bit sharpish, like conquering heroes,
well, no one needs to go off begging, innit.
Linda The Spasm has got a roll of E’s
laid-on from a hooker on East Corner Docks
and they’re crushing them up
and snorting them like fucking cocaine.
The whole party of head-cases
only has a three hour memory between them,
culminating in Frederick going potty.
He’s still in love with that Gemma,
you know the one with no heart or mercy,
always got a face on her like a wet fortnight.
She’s winding the cunt right up,
flirting with everyone there, except him.
The Filth turn up eventually
because of the smoke billowing out of the back
of the derelict New Age Travellers Bus.
They’ve got a documentary film crew with them,
and they all stand around laughing
whilst Frederick and Johnny
are duking it out in front of a flaming backdrop.
They ain’t using the film, apparently,
they were scouting for young ‘Joyriders’
not middle-aged ‘Vagrants’
shitting where they sleep.
Yeah, they took the lot in,
all Public Order Offences,
everyone’s moving onto Exeter next.
We had a good thing going there for awhile,
right at the back of Sainsbury’s,
where they keep the out-of-date food bins,
and it was only a five minute stroll into town.
I was in prison doing a fortnight
for breeching a Community Service Order.
I’ve only bumped into Linda so far,
I’ll be having a violent word with that Frederick
just as soon as I catch up with him,
my old sheepskin coat was on that bus
and the only photo of my daughter was in the pocket.

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).