| Dark Poetry |
| Poetry by Paul Tristram |
| To read other short stories, click one of the titles below. |
| Clown By Paul Tristram Beads of sweat run down his grease painted forehead as he stamps his right foot rhythmically 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 resembling 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 ‘Raven’ yet, everyone refers to him as ‘Prozac.’ 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 bridesmaids 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 bucket-ward 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 child-ward 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
Tristram, click here
For poems by Brian
Barnett and Michael
Pendragon, click here
Jaster, Jade Horne and
William Lau, click here
For poems by Paul
Tristram, click here
For poems by Brian
Barnett and Michael
Pendragon, click here
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