by Paul Tristram
The Sweet Taste Of Bitterness
She sat in the warm, pleasant side room
of The Samaritans Offices,
talking in heartbroken sobs
whilst wringing a disintegrating Kleenex
through her worrying, troubled fingers.
Until, a sudden memory flashed
through her aching mind
of herself dance-walking energetically
around the scrunched up used tissues
upon their perfectly purring bedroom floor.
Dressed in just his musky old work t-shirt
and singing gaily (In a voice which now
seemed so alien and foreign!) on her way
to the next door bathroom to freshen up.
As he lay in bed smoking contentedly
the second best cigarette of the day
whilst flicking through the channels
to find some River Cottage or rugby.
She screamed, making the kind, empathic
old lady at The Samaritans spill her tea
whilst jumping with a frightened start.
Being left alone while the other searched out
cleaning materials, she cast the Kleenex
ground-wards with bile inducing repulsion,
stamped upon it twice, placed her raging palms
each side of her furnace head and tried
with all of her might to squeeze out
That Sweet Taste Of Bitterness
Ahh Bisto-ing her backwards to the cruel past.
For the millionth time Nuh!
I do not think like you
nor agree with you at all, thank God.
I am not very good at pretending,
falseness is weakness,
so I never ever go there.
I am not changing for anyone,
nor should I.
Why would I want to be anyone but me?
Im Great and Fantastic!
I am living life my own way, completely
and that is that.
Remember youre shadowing me, sunshine,
not the other way around.
Ill see you on the other side
of that Bright, Successful Mountain.
Whatever am I thinking?
You dont belong there, do you?
Thats why youre so bitter and twisted,
and trying to catch a lift
by leeching onto my Soul.
Because you were cheated of your own at birth
and have been imitating and hating ever since.
(Im going to insert dummy out of pram
right at the end of this poem for you!)
When Genes and the Environmental bond
to give birth to a new link in a destructive chain,
stretching the length of generations.
It is only stubborn free will, sense of individuality,
strength of character and at the very least,
temporary exile, which holds the key
to smashing apart the repetitive, ingrained pattern
and freeing oneself from the behavioural lie, enmeshed in.
Spearmint Chewing Gum & Tobacco
I remember well those teenage years
of courting, cwtching and kissing
standing upright in graffiti bricked bus tops.
Hiding from parents, brothers and sisters
and the battering of the Welsh, Winter rains.
Love bites peeking from under shirt collars,
and Initials compassed as Indian ink tattoos.
The lingering scent upon fingertips
and Whipping It Out just in time
became almost a Russian Roulette art form.
Hearts & Arrows scrawled upon book covers,
toilet walls and carved into classroom desktops.
Walking hand in hand around Neath Fair
proudly and shyly all at the very same time.
The magical intensity of everything,
the hormones and testosterone banger-car
racing around our mixed up, changing bodies.
Each weekend was the end of the world,
culminating in chases, fistfights and tears
because at The Talk Of The Abbey
under 18s disco no one messes with my girl.
Plead The Belly
Wait a minute, please.
I love you.
There isnt anything we cant work out.
Eh, come back.
Ok, well walk together then.
You remember that picnic you arranged,
how cool was that, right, so thoughtful
Slow down a bit.
Look, you cant just dump me.
Were special, you knows it.
I wasnt actually lying per se.
It was more, having your best interests at heart.
I knew that you would be upset
and a Twat like that isnt worth getting upset over,
I swear to God, hes nothing.
Christ, youre almost running.
Slow down, youre upsetting me.
I mean it.
Right, now Im getting angry.
And I shouldnt be angry because
because Im pregnant.
There you made me say it.
Its all your fault.
I was going to wait until this nonsense was behind us
to tell you but youve forced me into this.
You are so cruel sometimes.
Now stop and turn around.
Or you will never have anything to do with your baby.
I mean it, you Bastard.
Ive just about had enough of your selfish shit!
Well, You Did Ask For Both Sides Of The Coin, Silly
I thought it would be all love hearts and rainbows,
imagine being married to a Poet.
Spending the afternoons
quietly contemplating the magic of the Seasons
whilst reading Blake and Auden.
Train rides to the seaside with notebook and sandwiches,
spontaneous poetry readings at family weddings.
The pride of being introduced at social events
as the Poets Better Half.
Three weeks into the relationship
and I find him curled around the back of the toilet
covered in his own blood and puke.
He had jumped out of a hedge, pissed as a newt,
6am the day before and punched a milkman.
He doesnt talk to himself, he argues!
and Ive never heard a human being
make that sort of noise before (Gives me the shivers!)
I telephoned the Doctor but they claimed
that hes always like that and to only call them
if he breaks a bone or needs stitching up.
I had to end the whole affair, of course,
by sliding a note through the door of the wardrobe
which he had laid upon its side and was whispering in?
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