Funeral Black & Graveside Grey by Paul Tristram

That rust filing taste… is perpetual, now.
The slanting rains no longer
wash last night’s sludge away.
There is a single beer bottle,
almost upright, in the frothing gutter,
she envies its hollowness.
Dragging the tattered hem of her skirt
through the shit and grime
of another brain-racked hour…
she wanders, inconsistently,
her wretched way
towards the mocking laugh
of the noontime church bell.
There are prison bars behind both eyes,
and a cell-door coldness to everything,
but, re-fuelling anger.
Yet, the day before yesterday,
she crossed paths with ‘Calm’,
in the Market Square.
It resided within the face of a girl
not yet damaged
by Life’s twisted purpose and meaning.
She’d appeared, suddenly,
like Francis Bacon’s ‘Jet Of Water’
before turning and disappearing
just as quickly, into mediocre shoulders.
Now, ‘Hope’ (Once Long Dead),
was back, uncomfortably,
upon its tormenting throne.
And, she couldn’t shake
the gnawing grasp of its Bastard uncertainty.

paul smoking - Copy

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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