POETRY: AS YOUNG AND FRESH AS ARICOTS IN A STRIPPERS PURSE BY PAUL TRISTRAM

I am nowhere near the age of eighteen anymore, Jesus!
There’s grey in my face stubble after a five-day bender,
crows feet and bags around and under my bloodshot–eyes
and some Bastard’s gone and turned up the volume
of my hangovers to 11 and snapped off the switch.
I gave up cigarettes three years ago, now I only smoke
(Besides illegal things!) a cigar or three with beer,
which isn’t every night now, more like every four of five.
My days are just too full and there’s just so much work to do,
yet, I have to be careful for my mind’s just as fucked-up
and as devious as ever and it takes just a fraction of a second
to send me acting out ‘The Fool’ card of the tarot pack, again.
It’ll happen when I awake, I’ll be out of bed and down the road,
money, knives and knuckles in my swaggering pockets
and dusty old Rover’s hat perched handsomely upon my head.
Walking around that cemetery up in Highgate, over in Bristol
sailing a ferry across to Saint-Malo, wandering London’s Soho,
and stumbling Cardiff’s Butetown directionless and alone.
I can be gone for days sometimes, exploring this crazy life,
clearing the cobwebs of my mind and smiling for no reason
with my Soul and Spirits soaring high, wired and alive
and feeling as fresh and young as apricots in a strippers purse.

Written by Paul Tristram

Barstool

Available to buy via Lulu

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