Lisa Knight's Blog, page 24

POETRY: YOU BASTARD, YOU’VE RUINED AGNOSTIC FRONT’S ‘ SOMETHING’S GOTTA GIVE’ ALBUM, FOR EVERYONE NOW! BY PAUL TRISTRAM

I remember arguing with this little, old punk guy

from a small town, somewhere by the coast,

down South, on my travels, a few years ago.

5’2” or there about, lost most of his teeth

(Not through fighting but because his Mother

still brings him bags of jelly sweets around

to visit him twice a week in his late forties!)

I once asked him how he had gotten into Punk,

he had replied that he was picked on in school

so it was an disguise to not be bullied anymore.

And that his Mohawk was also carefully planned,

it was to make him look at least half a foot taller,

oh dear, I had to turn away and bite my lip.

The biggest (or shortest?) coward I’ve ever met

and I’ve bumped into quite a few along the road.

Won’t fight you like a man, no honour or dignity!

Sympathy and gossip are his only weapons,

clucks like a bitch in a knitting circle, he does,

behind your back and out of earshot, obviously.

Unless it’s on the phone, and you’re far away,

he called me up one day whilst I was sat reading

Kafka’s ‘The Castle’ and squirmed down the phone

“You Bastard, you’ve ruined Agnostic Front’s

‘Something’s Gotta Give’ album for everyone, now!”

“Prey, explain yourself?” I asked, amused.

“Well, one of the songs on it has your name in it!”

“Oh, I see, well, you’d better take it up with the band,

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t in that day, and they wrote it!”

I hung up and tried for the next 15 minutes or so

not to have a hernia from laughing so punk rock hard.

Written by Paul Tristram

POETRY: LLYWELYN – THE TRUE PRINCE OF WALES BY PAUL TRISTRAM

I used to walk up the hill in the rain,

at the foot of the old mountain,

from the ‘The White Gates’ window factory

on the corner (Where Mamo worked!)

Up under ‘The Three Arches’ viaduct,

turn left onto Dynevor Road,

then right into Cwrt-y-Clafdy, to home.

I would often stop before ‘The Three Arches’

marvelling up at the big white letters

painted about a foot from the top

for all of Skewen and the World to see

‘Llywelyn: The True Prince Of Wales’

“They must have leaned over from the top

and it’s a fair old height and all, mun.

They’d have broken their necks if they fell?”

I was around seven or eight years old

and I always meant to ask my Grampa

who the bloody hell this Llywelyn was?

But it always seemed to slip my mind

when I turned the corner and saw the girls

hanging about, out of the rain, in the bus stop.

Written by Paul Tristram

POETRY: SLIMY LITTLE BASTARD BY PAUL TRISTRAM

Squirming in your toad-like envy

beneath a stinking cloak of lies

you add more disgusting flavours

by the hateful handful

to your overflowing pot

of un-idle gossip.

With schadenfreude addiction

strangling the sight

of your every miserable waking hour,

no one wants to be you,

even your own pathetic self

would turn that down with contempt.

Hand in hand with despair

and genuinely unfounded anger,

which is ironically

the only genuine thing about you,

you walk along your twisted path

incomplete, a mere half-life.

A slave to your selfish inadequacies,

a mountain-sized need and yearning

trapped within your molehill soul.

Doomed to live within the shadow

of Better People

whom you try weakly to imitate

but embarrassingly fail at

and will continue to do so, forevermore

Written by Paul Tristram

POETRY: FLOWER SHIRT BY PAUL TRISTRAM

Back when we were young kids

playing up the ‘Ary-Gary Woods’

we found a flower patterned shirt,

scrumpled up in the bushes.

We all sat around it telling stories

about what might have happened?

Of course, these included Bogey Men,

Monsters, Kidnapping and Murder.

We got ourselves pretty worked up

and my Cousin she decided that one

of us should tell an adult so that they

could inform the proper authorities.

My brother volunteered and we all

stood close by in the back garden

while he told our Mother about it

as she pegged washing upon the line.

At first, she looked quite concerned,

that is until she asked if there was

anything else laying around close by?

He replied ‘Yes’ that there were

cider flagons and a balloon full of spit.

At which point, she laughed loudly

advising us to stay away from that part

of the woods and that we shouldn’t

worry ourselves too much about it all

for the mystery of the ‘Flower Shirt’

would reveal itself in a few years time.

Written by Paul Tristram

POETRY: SYCOPHANT SLAG BY PAUL TRISTRAM

I can see you squirm

behind that ass-kissing,

lie-dripping, false smile.

Tongue snake-forked

aura reptilian, cold-blooded

and side-winding, always.

Licking and polishing up

your hero’s/victims ego.

Basking in their light

my, how clever you are.

Until the mirror of truth calls

and you see it as it is.

Consumed by the start

of envy, malice and hatred.

You slither off to the other side

to join backboneless ranks

to destroy your once idol.

Their light has become grating,

you condemn them to be prey.

Giving into your base

and cowardly instincts

you become again what you are

an object of pity and disdain.

Written by Paul Tristram

POETRY: THE BOOK OF FINN’S BY PAUL TRISTRAM

I should have found it that drunken night

hidden upon that living room windowsill

directly opposite the ‘Infamous Barrel’

in that dark and dingy ground floor flat.

Raised it up and slammed it down again

like a hammer upon anvil until his shoulders

merely looked like they had vomited up

a load of stinking, rotten road-kill.

But I did not, Instead I sent the most important

thing in his two-faced life away from him.

The woman that he had loved for over a decade.

I sent her away not with a stolen kiss

or a sneaky behind the back fuck,

I sent her away from him in disgust by the truth.

I showed her the real truth inside of him.

Condemning him to a loveless, wretched existence.

Karma slayed my enemy; Karma set me free

from a life of violence, prison, hate and insanity.

Karma kept my soul safe and rewarded me kindly

Written by Paul Tristram

POETRY: BONNIE AND CLYDE’S CAR BY PAUL TRISTRAM

We had lunch in Sam’s Town

then left Fabulous Las Vegas

via the Mojave Desert

back towards California.

A short while down the road

we pulled into a casino

so I could use the restroom.

(I’d drunk 15 Heinekens

on The Strip the night before

studying the underbelly

hard at work and surviving!)

I squinted in through the dark

of the doorway and yawned

my way day dreamily passed

all the noisy, shiny machines.

And suddenly there it was in

a big glass case in front of me

Bonnie & Clyde’s actual car.

With their clothing with bullet

holes in frames hung next to it

and their guns and photographs

of the whole bloody ordeal too.

I walked completely around it

all three times, running my fingers

along the smooth, cool glass,

smiling like a child at Christmas.

I walked back out to our vehicle,

lighting up a Swisher Sweet

and thinking ‘my God we nearly

drove past it without knowing.’

“Why’ve you got that happy

lap dance smirk upon your face?”

she inquired with a frown.

I chuckled and told her the score,

then opened my first beer can

of the day and slid into the

passenger seat while she ran

back in there to take some photos.

Written by Paul Tristram

VOICES FROM A COMA #3 – SUBMISSION CALL

Quarterly Horror Anthology with a different theme each time!

Theme: Manipulation

Deadline: 30th April 2015

Word Count: up to 3500 (if over, please enquire)

Format: .doc or .docx; double spaced; Times New Roman or Arial; font size: 12

Reprints: Not if printed within last 5 years; may be subject to re-write

What we want:

Well written stories from both new and experienced authors that incorporate each anthology’s theme. However subtle this is carried out is down to the individual. Not interested in vampires, werewolves, zombies etcetera. Story containing any of these elements must be of exceptional quality. Gore MUST be intrinsic to the story. Excessive, over-the-top, unnecessary descriptions of viscera, rape, paedophilia, necrophilia or harm to animals will be binned. These are subjects that when written about must be tackled in a respectable manner. Anything deemed extreme will be seen as glorification and will be discarded.

We want stories that shock. Want stories that make you squirm. And think. And make you wonder about things. Not stories that make you question if the author is getting a little too much out of their story

Where to submit:

Email: comavoices@gmx.co.uk

BRYN FORTEY’S BOOK REVIEWS: RIGHT OFF BY HENRY DENANDER

Me? Reviewing an art book! This is where I might make a fool of myself. I am very much of the I-Know-What-I-Like school but don’t ask me just why I like it. One thing I can say is that I like a painting to be a painting. While I can admire the talented draughtsmanship that goes into making a painting as detailed as a photograph, I nevertheless do not find myself drawn to such work and would indeed turn to a photographer for that sort of picture. I want to see an artist’s interpretation, his version of what is on offer, rather than a direct copy.

I first came across Henry Denander through his poetry, being drawn to his post-Beat verse and jazzy lines, publishing him in my Outlaw magazine during the seventies while also reading him in chapbooks and other print sources. He was, and still is, a fine poet, but running parallel was his work as an artist.

Right Off was the track on a Jack Johnson LP that introduced him to the playing of trumpeter Miles Davis in 1971 and set him on course as a lifelong jazz fan. Much of his work has reflected this interest. This self-published mini-chapbook is all jazz; comprising twelve paintings reproduced on the right-hand page with their titles on the left.

Henry Denander has developed a quite personal style, and you usually know a painting is by him without having to be told. These twelve samples are both typical and inspired choices, resonating with an immediacy of movement both in the subjects and – by inference – the artist’s methodology. Heads and faces, when not of specific people, are often zigzag lines. Colours run into one another creating a smudged and impressionistic effect. Portraits, such as those of Randy Brecker and Dewey Redman, are sympathetic likenesses. Miles Davis has a scribbled face but is totally recognizable by his stance. Series, such as Bebop No.1and 2, which are both included, sees Denander moving even further from direct representation and into the flowing patterns of the music.

Style, technique, call it what you will. These twelve watercolours show an artist who has found a way of working that suits both him and his subject matter. An artist who appears comfortable within the self-limiting confines of his continuing endeavour. He is also well known for his many paintings of his beloved home-from-home: Hydra. But it is his jazz representation we are concerned with here. His artwork flows, maybe in time with the music he was probably listening to at the time. As a jazzman’s solo is committed, imperfections included, into a recording, so the artist’s wild splashes of colour strike a chord in partnership between the dual reception of sight and sound.

Good stuff, Henry. RIGHT OFF….right on!

Written by Bryn Fortey

POETRY: WHETHER I’M IN PUBS OR PRISON… I’M STILL HOLDING ONTO BARS BY PAUL TRISTRAM

I’m really not that hard to find.

I’m either walking around the Landing,

drinking cell hooch from a flask,

or leaning up against that glorious polished wood,

staring out optics for a living.

Written by Paul Tristram