Dark Poetry
Poetry by Paul Tristram
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By Paul Tristram

Beads of sweat run down
his grease painted forehead
as he stamps his right foot
up and down
upon the pedal of the grinder.
Sliding the meat cleaver
back and fore
in a silver fluid motion
almost like rocking a baby.
The blade makes sharp
dentist like groans
as it slides tantalizingly
along the sharpening stone.
A slight smell of singeing
as an occasional spark
backflips and arks
onto his orange afro wig.
His bloodshot eyes intense
as he finishes his task.
A wicked smile splits open
his monstrous face
revealing yellow broken
and uneven teeth
aging and decaying
Whaler’s tombstones.
He peers along the blade
that he places
by his bulbous black and red
anarchy symbol nose.
Satisfied with his work
he walks towards
the darkened next door room
where the kneeling, groaning,
blindfolded, bloody binded
and trembling girl
unbearably awaits him.
The Scarecrow
By Paul Tristram

He bides his time and waits
for what else can he do?
There’s a family of mice in his belly,
a cobweb under his left armpit
and a noisy robin’s nest
within his crooked top hat.
His smile is merely a painted mask
not a declaration of true feeling.
The rope binds that hold tight
his wrists and ankles disintegrate
a little more with each passing season.
For seven and three quarter long years
he’s been crucified to this wooden cross,
just like the village idiot from yesteryear
stuck in medieval town centre stocks.
Imprisoned to be laughed at, squawked at,
shit on by the bullying rooks and crows.
Scared of him; what nonsense,
they merely laugh and pluck straw
from his sleeve-cuffs to make their nests.
There was no crime committed
to fit or warrant this unique punishment,
no courtroom or law sits behind
this awkward and unjust sentence.
Yet, those binds are gradually breaking,
soon enough he will flop earth-wards
and lay there silently out of sight.
Until the rats come to pull him to pieces
before the end of the first nightfall
and he returns to what he’s meant to be
bits and pieces of clothing once more.
Metal Boots And A Lead-Filled Head
                                           By Paul Tristram

He is a Goth, he’s different
and walks about the townat night (Obviously!)
At the stroke of midnight
he kneels at the Celtic Cross
in the middle of the square
to mumble something fiendish.
He insists everyone call him
yet, everyone refers to him as
Except for his little
blonde, cross-eyed girlfriend
who cuts herself
and follows him around
like a lost puppy.
They are learning witchcraft,
drinking each others blood
and are planning to travel
the world upon the mighty wings
of his awesomeness.
They both live at home
with his mother.
The bag-lady sleeping
at the back of the Co-op
is more lost than the pair of them
and makes half the fuss about it.
About Paul Tristram

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
instead of digging empty
graves for innocence at
midnight, this too may
pass, yet.
Hideous Me
By Paul Tristram

She pounced neurotically at the ignorant wall,
tore off a rather nice framed nature print
and smashed it down over the back
of a defiant and obnoxious armchair.
Grabbed the fruit bowl next and flung it
straight through the screen of the communal TV.
Stamped on a coffee table, breaking it in two,
picked up half of it and threw it through
the largest of the 3 yawning bay windows.
She was sat cross-legged in the corner crying
and laughing manically whilst striking matches
against the large attractive inflammable sofa
when the 3 nurses burst into the common room.
The African one in charge yelling emotionally
“For Christ Sake, Emma, what are you doing?”

“It’s Dr Dickless’s fault, it was his idea
he told me to try expressing myself through art.
And I was busy creating my masterpiece
when you so very rudely interrupted me.
It’s a self-portrait and it’s called Hideous Me!”
The Ego Has Landed
        By Paul Tristram

Thirteen floors below!
A once human being
rapidly traversed
gravities chrysalis.
To be born again dead,
a sticky crimson
pavement butterfly.
To be scraped up
not to flutter…away.
My Padded Cell Playground
                         By Paul Tristram

Colored crayons and toes
intertwine like embracing lovers.
The screaming has temporarily stopped
Thank God, I was really annoying myself.
There’s a slight draft coming in through
the buckles of the straight-jacket
which tickles down my spine
like feather tips and dandelion seeds
gently cartwheeling together.
It makes me giggle out loud,
cracking the dried saliva on my face.
Vaguely aware of being monitored
I piss for amusement, anyway.I close my eyes and feel it trickle
inside my thighs and try to imagine
that it’s a woodland river
and I’m free again, fishing.
Fishing, I have never been fishing,
there was no-one there to teach me.
I rock back and fore slowly
my left shoulder hurts, I need to turn over
but the medication is too strong
and gives me soul vertigo
whenever I push too hard or too fast.
So to take my mind off my uncomfortableness
I decide to compose a mental postcard
to all of the ‘Dead People.’
“Weather’s fine, wish you were here!”
I chuckle so hard that I jolt and regress
where my mind begins to rip, again.
The drumming picks up momentum
and the screaming encores right on cue.
For poems by Jeremiah
Jaster, Jade Horne and
William Lau,
click here

For poems by Paul
click here

For poems by Brian
Barnett and Michael
click here