The Ivy & Primrose The Prostitute – Excerpt from ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ by Paul Tristram

The ivy worked its way silently but surely
up the wall straight towards my window. The window was my only
means of light and fresh air, up, up it came, always nearer,
dragging behind its complete self.
I thought of fire but alas, I had given up smoking three
days before my capture, so I of course was at present without
sufficient kindling for such an exercise.
Obviously the next line of thinking I followed was of the
utensil strain, I immediately set about testing the walls of my
damned prison for a loose bit of granite which, if luck was on
my side, I would be able to sharpen into some kind of natural
blade, thus saving myself and my so far cruel fate, so that we
may live on in years with the hope and inclination to grow
kinder to one another.
All of a sudden I heard a “BOO!” sound, I spun around and there
at the window it cameth, it cameth big fucking time.
It cameth like forest vomit only it smelt of sky and boomerangs.
I threw my meagre table to the floor and stamped upon it until
a leg broke (This of course gave me hope, there was still a chance
but I had to be quick, or I’d run out of typing ink!).
I picked up the once loyal eating table by one of the three
remaining legs and held it aloft, like a three legged shield or
something. I then reached to the floor with my free hand (The
fucking thing would never do what it was told, it always insisted
on being free, but anyway!) and grabbed the broken table leg
and swung it about my head like a beauty.
Obviously the ivy stopped in its tracks, let out a soft moan
and shit.
I attacked upright, I thrusted then I parried, I smashed that
motherfucker right on the swede, then retreated to the dark
left hand corner to assess the shituation.
It all looked in my favour, the fucker was unconscious. I seized
my chance leaping with grace out of the corner (The Dark Left Hand
One) straight astride the fucker and down I slid (Christ, I didn’t
Even Stop To Collect My £200 When I Passed Go?).
Upon hitting the ground I jumped astride my horse (Jerusalem!)
for he had been waiting for me ever since my capture and had
been pining away the hours by looking up at me with tearful eyes.
Anyway we hit the road, and fucked off to Cornwall and I’ve
been there ever since.
It was there that I met Primrose the Prostitute.
She used to smoke cigars after licking ‘em.
She reminded me of Neptune, not the planet but the district.
She had a dodgy eyebrow (Not That One, The Other Fucker!).
I remember the first time that I met Primrose, it was over
heartache and broken chopsticks.
Her ways were many and hardly innocent, yet she rambled freely
where other hookers feared to tread. She was a trainspotter
of pain and I was pulling into Platform 5.
Her mouth garnished with lies, she approached me with a slither.
“Yo, Big Boy Do You Wanna Take A Ride ON MY Magic Carpet?”
she inquired.
“Take Me To Your Leader!” I replied with a silken smirk.
Away we went like embracing vultures.
We travelled together for fourteen nights, her appetite was
ferocious, yet it lacked the carefulness of familiarity.
It had to end and so it did.

paul smoking

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 books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!


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