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by Paul Tristram




Where We Cross Swords No Longer


I’d climb her ribcage,

if she’d only let me.

From the bottom

to the top.

In and out

of nostalgia

to a deeper


Where we

cross swords no longer.




a line, (a short blue one)



Distracting Tangle


They are in the shadows waiting

just up ahead

and all the way through life.

Often times,

you won’t even see

the knives glistening.

(They mostly stab from behind!)

The faces change

but the patterns & games

remain the same.

Don’t argue with those vermin,

you’ll just be giving them

what they want… a chance

to halt your progress through the day

and take that spring out of your step.

You owe no one an explanation

for just being you.

The ugliest thing

upon this beautiful planet

is an envious person.

Avoid them like the plague

and leave them tamping by the wayside.

Besides, you only argue & disagree

with people you love, respect & care about.

The rest are unimportant, vampires

and distracting tangles to be danced around.




a line, (a short blue one)



She Blushes…


Marshmallow pink and Turkish Delight purple,

a slight stammer that’s not quite a full-flight stutter.

Trembles rather than shakes, looks downwards often

and is extremely excitable yet thoughtful with it.

A soft, gentle charm which captivates,

with a smile that is innocent, mischievous

and adorable all at the very same time.

The centre of attention, always…

even though she prefers watching from the side-lines.

Unless she has given you her wonderful, complicated heart…

then her July-warm personality springs itself open

just like a Stage-Magician’s bouquet of colourful flowers.




a line, (a short blue one)



Desire’s Hanging From The Corner Hook… A-Begging & A-Pleading


… as I watch obliquely interested.

That’s not exactly mucus

but, it will fit the bill, at a push.

It’s the ‘Sighs’

which grant a levelling hand…

the temper’s merely

mirror-bouncing bound

and caught up within

the rush of its own circle.

Ah, the last step which isn’t really there…

again, and again… and again.

Mercy’s reserved for the most special occasions…

and this is certainly not one of those.

Ouch, with the flailing elbows, already,

you’ll do yourself a mischief.

Enveloped in shuddering,

the Doorman’s on his fag-break,

where the lights still flutter,

far out of ear-shot.

Capture is a Beginning not an End…

the only thing backwards

here is your thinking.

Orchestrating tremors

with a dastardly smile.

There’s a SONIC BOOM

in the mind at the point of death,

I’ve felt it buckle, ripple

and disperse a green coloured energy…

non-toxic and cloudless…

But, I digress… let us go back to Questions

which are really Insults,

and have absolutely no need of Answers.




a line, (a short blue one)



Bring Out Your Dead


Sweating like a roasting pig

within his heavy wax overcoat.

He staggers towards and then out of

the front door of the old, squalid

ramshackle of diseased apartments.

With a piece of dirty white chalk

his X condemns the entire building.

Through the glass eyes of the plague mask

he surveys the shit and mud churned

street laying stinking before him

seeing with satisfaction only 3 houses left.

Breathing in deeply the ambergris, myrrh,

laudanum, cloves, balm-mint leaves,

camphor, rose petals and storax

through straw packed tightly into the beak

of his mask for a second or so.

He then staggers onwards wearily

as the creaking wooden cart trudges

on half a back lane behind him

with the scruffy street urchin before it

crying hoarsely “Bring out your dead!”




a line, (a short blue one)



Crazy Like Emotion (The Poem)


There is a long, narrow, darkened tunnel,

straight as a vengeful, bitter arrow,

which helps to keep the piercing shrieks

contained within a small radius

of each inmate/half-life’s

damp, nocturnal dwelling place.

The building materials

are giant granite wall blocks of absolute despair,

rancid crone-hair mattresses

and iron bars forged in the raging hellfire’s

of her arrogant, twisted fucking laugh.

There are no ‘Meals’ to speak of,

no one eats when they reach ‘That’ state.

The Temper-Tantrums help keep

the rot and fungi from inching too close…

so our advice would be, to let loose

and give it everything that you’ve got.

Your Cell is ready and prepared with… nothing!

but plenty of room to go frustratingly ‘Nuts’ in.

This is the Centre Ward within an Asylum,

inside a Category A Prison Fortress,

deep in the Bowels of your Mind.

You should have been more careful with your Heart,

it’s the ‘Achilles Heel’ of your emotions.

How many more beatings and hard labour sentences

will it take you… to leave the naivety

of those Valentine Day fantasies and delusions behind?



a line, (a blue one)


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