Posts Tagged ‘Flash’


Please don't call it my town I just live there

Please don’t call it my town I just live there

 

 I live in a town so small you can go from up-town to down-town…just by turning around …where the newspaper is a pamphlet that comes out once a month…mostly about people who couldn’t wait to get out…it’s called “The Obituaries” but I know I saw Mrs. Lacey sneaking out of town real early one morning….a place where the only gun restriction is that you don’t point it at your waitress…. where Andy Griffith goes to get away from it all…a town so small they still sell penny candies…you have to buy them by the dozen…and you only get four but…….where the only store sells guns & beer next to diapers & Viagra…..I remember this one time …the whole town lost power….somebody tripped over the cord…. the mayor drives the school bus…we had a riot one time…two people went home for lunch…leaving me all alone….we had the same homecoming queen three years straight…time for a new one…if she graduates…where the closest hospital is so far away they usually just go to the cemetery…and wait….and the school is right next door….so you can see your future….a town so small you can look out your window and see who all your neighbors are doing…where everybody knows everything about everybody…unless you are new here like me…and I keep to myself….a town so small all the women’s periods have synced up and for a few days a month they change the name to “Red River Valley”……someday my name is going to be on that pamphlet…one way or the other.
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“Skullblaka: Head of A Discarded Machine”

The Skullblaka stirred up a buzzard’s nest wherever it planted its beak into an azure marsh. Squirrels, toads, termites, boars and honey badgers rallied around the obnoxious posturing of this ancient head — an SUV among primates, but this was no paleolithic Dodge model. Bone density meant unbreakable – something like thermite and solar plexus plastic boasting ‘the might to withstand magma craters, and other praetorian phenomena’ while Model-T’s chugged down the eco-streets like well oiled platypuses. Politeness was not a part of the Skullblaka’s programming. “The great blockhead” as it was addressed hissed at the foxes and the tiny snakes, slinging dirty looks toward them when they’d pass down the creek, on water or on foot.

It neither ate nor slept, nor would it put up with any heady resistance from the creatures of the forest fauna – even the quiet ones that were in search of happier sentiments. Twice, Tilda the Black Bear caught a porcupine spike-laced torpedo in her side. Out for a look at some beehive neighborhoods, she paddled away in pain, furious at the Talking Head that simply would not shut up. There was no enchantment involved in this area of woodland, no endorsement from a Lothlorien that was formerly civilization, torn from its crystalline high chair when food was cooked on command and didn’t have to be roasted over the fires of modesty. This was Sherwood Forest not, nor a metropolis. Natural races ran these lands, barring the hostile artifact stuck in the future – not so much the past. Skullblakas were irritable, though not without a sense of survivalist humor. For instance, when it would use deciduous animation to pit pythons and jaguars against one another in a Quetzalcoatl-like death match in the trees, a cruder version of the Jungle Book cartoon was born. “Mowgli … mostly … surrounded by brainless animals,” so they quipped.

And so the orangatans and the leaf ants and the hawks disregarded its place in the ecosystem, for it was indeed a strange misnomer to these residents, utterly unwanted in this tranquil refuge. A tumor that nature would soon be rectified when monsoon rains came, as the Skullblaka rusted to death. Hard headed as its inventors, it couldn’t bother the native animals with demeaning slurs anymore, or environmental neglect. Hollow-minded, quantum sapped, nevermore magic gone.


 

Ha! (Nothing, I Was Just Laughing At Your Cum Face!)

 

Jesus Christ, I was only joking

come back to bed and straddle mine.

 

 

© Paul Tristram 2013

 

I Resemble That Remark

 

“You are a complete Bastard!”

She yelled as spit bounced off my face.

 

“Yes, you are right, I agree with you!”

I answered with a weary smile.

 

“Of all the dirty lowdown tricks.

How dare you agree with me

when I’m insulting you, are you mad?

Christ, you fucking infuriate me.

If I called you a ‘Cunt’ or an ‘Asshole’

you’d probably smile and agree, wouldn’t you?”

She hissed with a voice of venom.

 

“Well, given the proper occasion,

I can be both at exactly the same time!”

I answered, smiling and agreeing.

 

“See, there you go again,

turning an insult into a compliment.

I could stab you in the face with a fucking fork!”

She screamed, grabbing her coat and slamming

the front door loudly behind herself.

 

It was Thursday night again, her sisters girlie night.

I don’t know why she didn’t just say

that she was going and then just go?

I’ve been called a Bastard 3 Thursdays this month

and the truth is I really like the break it gives me,

I’ve even started stocking up beer on the Wednesday,

because I’m a clever Bastard like that. J

 

© Paul Tristram 2013

 

Do I Look Fucking Sci-Fi To You?

 

There a bloke moved into the attic room (You remember Trophy’s old place?)

he’s got a North English accent and I shouldn’t really judge him because I have

only spoke to him twice and on both occasions I walked away from him after a

very long, drawn out minute or two, but I shall judge the cunt all the fucking same,

The Geezer Is A Fucking Dickhead!

 

He is into (Christ, I can hardly bring myself to say it!) Star Trek, on the day he

moved in I had the misfortune of needing to go for a piss while the landlady was

showing him the showers and she introduced me as the writer,

“Oh, what kind of things do you write, Sci-Fi?” he asked and wrongly answered

himself.

 

“No, do I Fuck, I write about real things, like piss missing the toilet bowl,

headaches on Sundays, women who can bring their periods on at will, the intricate

shading of a black eye, flea’s with drinking problems, the buzzing of a police

scanner, how Prozac doesn’t work, hot wax on pink nipples, scratch marks on the

back of my soul, peacock feathers dipped in bitterness and drying on a hot Summer

Welsh pavement, knives with badly burnt points, pubic hair smiles, Uri Geller’s

haemorrhoids alive and well and living on another plain, the funny bone’s silent

music, Germaine Greer doing it for herself, Old Holborn hangovers, empty

cardboard boxes which heroically yet uselessly defy the wind, a pebble on Oxwich

Beach, fragments of false hope, love bites on the ass, the fever of fear, the pollution

of panic, uncomfortable happiness, a castrated mongrel dog licking a discarded

lollypop somewhere in Cardiff’s Splot area, how cobwebs are really fucking made,

ants with herpes, song thrush’s with thrush, why sledgehammers don’t rest well

in kitchen sinks, Beer, aids, cancer, heart attacks, ulcers, fruit salads and running

out of cigarette papers, Japanese Knotweed, the female condom, Neath Fair, a

crumbling house brick, splitting matches in a prison cell, slopping out on the 2’s,

the liberty cap, crow’s feet and chicken shit, a dented saucepan, an old water well

full to the brim with empty citer bottles, luminous vibrators, cigarette burns with

attitude, Women, ice-cubes, dental hygiene, disused bike ramps, scowering pads,

empty wallets, angry wallpaper, bad haircuts and Fly Argaric.

 

Lonely red wine picnics, breadcrumbs on the bed sheets, tracing-paper toilet roll,

Blackjacks, helter-skelters, smoke glass ashtrays, The River Neath, almost poetry,

insane taxi drivers, THE GUTTER, giros, beggars, thieves and tired babysitters.

Post office queues, a blob of turquoise, clothes of black, scarlet velvet curtains,

that purple crap that dentists give you to rinse your mouth out, another bit of

turquoise, nutmeg, lime scale, dangerous stepladders, uneven pavements, the X5

bus which goes from Neath to Swansea, laying down upon the back seat of the X5

bus from Neath To Swansea somewhere in Briton Ferry and pissing onto the floor.

A sticky bag of sherbet lemons, St. Trinian’s movies, Smudge and the mess which

resides within his cranium, flint and steel, gorse bushes, tractor tires, stone

throwing, rats, bats and antelopes, watching piss run along the floor of the X5 bus

from Neath to Swansea, spelling mistakeses, Bagpuss, whisky, 9p tins of beans,

foxes, rusty spanners, prison cell nightmares, Mr. Benn, the insane guy from

upstairs, broken nasal cavities, forehead stretch marks, leukaemia H2O, black

desert boots, silver jewellery, January’s anger, the Swedish Au Pair I once met

in Soho London, chopsticks and switchblades, the revenge of teachers, The Ivy

Tower, witches, Welsh Folk and Valleys of deep living green, Tiger Bay, The

Saltings, Monkey Rock, Port Talbot’s steel works, nicotine stains on toilet

porcelain, bonging, Kate Moss.

 

Window shopping, ram-raiding, suicidal servitude, the false hope of Summer,

DEATH, trying to avoid stepping in piss when exiting the X5 bus in Swansea,

pieces of string, razor blades, burning skateboards, plain out of shape candles,

a short middle fingernail.

 

Bedbugs and the Karma Sutra with black coffee, INSANITY and other day to

day emotions, gravy granules, chocolate chip cookies, sunsets, electric light

bulbs, dirty looks, fish tanks, lies and excuses.

 

Christina Applegate holding a rose between her teeth, Crickley Hill, The Forest

Of Dean, magpies, spears, wooden staffs and pine kindling, the first roll-up of

the morning, button mushrooms, MAGIC MUSHROOMS.

 

The way things used to be, the blonde guy who keeps giving me dirty looks in

Ottackers book shop, the girl with the long straight brown hair and glasses who

works in Solo Record Shop in Truro, those damned Cathedral bells which never

stop ringing.

 

Pornography, sickness, music, depression, donkey rides, spinning out, drunken

teenagers, pointing two fingers upwards, hunger pains, matchstick craftwork,

making mailbags in Swansea Prison, signing on, opting out, books and shit,

custard slices, blue tack and train stations.

 

VODKA, rope burns, idiocy, truth, decadence, purity, Autumn, the number

thirteen, DRUGS, constipation, the shits, white trousers, MORE DRUGS, road

cone helmets, a shopping trolley ride, HOSPITALS.

 

Mint aero’s, suicide, birth, perfection, fear, tattoo’s, paint brushes, the Summer

holidays spent forced indoors, ANGER, SPITE and the guillotine, frost bite,

the moon, masturbation and blackboards.

 

Pernod, LAGER, crisps, Big Mac’s, Chinese takeaways, fucking ice-cream vans,

ANXIETY, STRESS and other past times, broken cuckoo clocks, V Fucking D,

damaged goods, sharpening sticks on curb stones, Windsor Road, The Knoll,

The Coach House, Fucking Kicking Back Drunk, descending rain, wet knickers,

dental floss, fire blankets, plastic cups, cardboard furniture, warts and dandruff,

the shadows, pierced body bits, shaved eyebrows and desperation.

 

Fried egg sandwiches, A4 notepads, those little blue pens from Argos, The Melyn

Woods, Katherine Close, Gloucester Cathedral, indigestion, cramp vampires,

vicious toothpicks, a sack of railway stones, chicken pasties, sawn-off shotguns,

crowbars and phlegm.

 

Blackheads on one’s tongue oooOOOOHHHH! Trago Mills, blank cassettes,

castanets, cornets, hornets, car bonnets, empty bottles, hookers, DEBAUCHERY,

body odour, the guilt mangled up inside its cover aaaAAAARRRggggGG! and

of course other such important issues like Halloween Hallucinations.

The landlady and the Twat who likes Star Trek had stood with open mouths while

I had divulged this information, but now that I had finished they looked at each

other then quickly turned and walked away.

 

It must have been something I said? mind you, I think that I did overdo it a bit

when I mentioned paint brushes, I don’t know, what do you think?

 

© Paul Tristram 2013

 


 

 

MEAN STREETS by Brenton Booth

 

 

Alcohol pulsed like heartbeat drowning fear. The two of us, still teenagers, far

 

from men, downing straight whiskey from the bottle and seeing who could curse

 

the best, and fill the school football field with the most piss. It didn’t actually

 

matter anymore—the act itself was now satisfying enough for both of us.

 

Trapped in single parent families in a small worthless broke suburb in Sydney,

 

neither of us hiding our disgust very well tonight.

 

We finished the bottle. I hurled it at the grandstand hoping for an explosion—

 

though was slightly satisfied with the mess it created.

 

“ I’m going home,” I said.

 

“ I’m going for a walk. I don’t want to go home. I would never go there again if it

 

wasn’t for my little sister. I have to look after her—save her from them,” said

 

Tom.

 

I stumbled home leaving him in the shadows, hoping I’d see him again, those

 

streets really weren’t safe to walk, but we both knew that worse things existed.


Worker Ant Refusal Committee

Remember the days when freedom tasted sweeter than praline cream doused in dandelion musk? Remember when graham crackers actually meant something, and crunchy texture was a loving partner to the honeyed glaze? There are similar sensations when an ant can walk freely about its colony, making no bones towards what best served the queen, and her long list of unattainable demands. “We move too much,” most say, “Can’t stay put for more then a few weeks, it seems” but a change in management simply isn’t feasible since she owns all the stakes in the Division of Labor.
 
Born slaves are taught to relish in the work, the assembly line of liquid determination; faces with antennas and friendly conduct, but so business-driven and focused on maintaining unification you can taste the bitter synchronicity. The harsh workloads are poltergeists in the blips of air.
 
Instinct wasn’t cradled in the starlight and nothing was right in a life dictated by the movement of a quintillion pickaxes. “We are a thing of beauty, but they exterminate us because of our poor choices. We build on front lawns when we are goddamned machines with workmanlike super-minds. We are so efficient we form bridges by becoming them. They burn them then stead.”
And so they worked their backs off for a molecular shard of what humans classify as self awareness, the cosmological data terminal [glitches quite often, reboots every other millennia]
 
Since the day that the refusal committee began to infiltrate the ranks, they haven’t been roused from their doldrums. Buzzing catacombs full of mound larvae’s now lay stagnant, like a railroad mine without the sounds of hacks and grunts and clockwork without splendor. A sense of fulfillment lingers, for ants are now acquiesced to do what they would dream about before in these sprawling dungeons of dirt, these tirelessly erected in-sectarian forts, now a quiet library of the taiga. These ants get to watch black comedies about termites. What would Termiticles the Great think about all of this?

 

 


 

 

Headfuck Luck

 

I’m eating magpie soup again,

been walking under ladders,

passing people on stairs.

Ended up with the smallest

half of the wish-bone.

Had a tarot reading

and pulled The Tower,

Death and the 3, 8 and 10

of Swords, Fuck!

Didn’t catch my girlfriend cheating,

so I’m stuck with her for now.

Been disowned by everyone

that I used to know

but that is exactly what I needed.

Nothing is going right

and nothing is going wrong

I am walking through the middle

ground somewhere, for now.

With all of the signs pointing

to positive or negative outcomes

which do not appear?

I guess that right now I am lucky

at not having good or bad luck

respectively.

What a curious foreign limbo this is?

 

© Paul Tristram 2012

 

Super Size My Love, Innit!

 

It started running down her left leg, then it started running

down her right arm, it filled her left shoe while it ran over

and off her right fingers, it was hatred.

It bubbled upon the back of her neck, spreading up and through

her hair, it went down her left arm, then her right leg, all of

a sudden there was a splash and it ran down her back, through

her arse and then crashing to the floor.

Then it started at the front, gaining momentum as it rose up

the curve of each breast, creating a gushing waterfall straight

down through her pubic hair and down onto the floor around

her feet.

She was now totally and utterly consumed in hatred, she started

shaking and swaying, for a few seconds it looked as if she

might lose her balance and topple over but she didn’t, she

started to scream instead.

Then she lunged at her boyfriend and started to scratch at

his terror struck face.

“You Bastard!” she yelled.

“You fucking insensitive, selfish, thoughtless Bastard, you

know that I asked for a Chicken McSandwich, you know I

never have fucking Chicken McNuggets but what have you

fucking bought me again, you stupid Bastard?”

With this she grabbed the box of Chicken McNuggets off

the table and started to ram them into his bruised and bloody

mouth.

Then she tried ramming one up his left nostril, it wouldn’t

fit, well she’d just have to make the fucker fit wouldn’t she.

She managed to get a corner up, then with the same hand she

pushed his forehead back, then while his head was tilted back

and with the use of great force she banged the Chicken

McNugget right up into his nostril with the palm of her hand.

He let out a sickly little moan and breathed heavily out of

the one nostril

“Thou Bithitch!” he groaned.

 Well, that was the final straw, she went for the strawberry

milkshake and leapt into his unprotected lap, she then tried

to drown the poor motherfucker with the afore mentioned

strawberry milkshake.

It was at this point that I stepped in, I had been sitting

quietly in the corner (No, not the corner by the fucking

toilets, what do you think I am for Christ Sake? I was

sitting in the corner on the other side of McDonalds!) just

musing over the state which I had again let my life get into.

When I suddenly thought to myself ‘Hey that’s enough God

Damn it’ I stood up upon my sturdy feet and shouted across

of McDonalds,

“Yo, ginger motherfucker, yeah you with your knees in that

poor Bastards scrotum, enough’s enough, now climb on down

off of him!”

But she did not even hear me; she was too busy shouting abuse

at the poor Bastard while still trying to drown the poor

motherfucker with the strawberry milkshake, she was shouting,

“You God Damned fucking faggot, you can’t even get it up

anymore and you never go down on me, you selfish Bastard,

what’s the matter with my pussy, most men would love to

have my pussy!”

She was still kneeling on him, but she managed to turn to one

side, lift up her skirt, pull her knickers to one side and shout

to an old man on the table opposite,

“What do you think of my pussy eh, you’d go down on it if

it slept with you every night, wouldn’t you, you old fuck?”

The old guy just turned red then purple then looked at his

wife, his wife was playing with a cold French fry, pretending

that nothing was happening.

It was then that I lassoed her, YEEHAAA!

I pulled that psycho bitch right off the guy’s whose bollocks

now resembled pork paste, and dragged her insane arse right

up the aisle and out through the main doors.

As we disappeared out of the doors the people still sitting in

McDonalds started cheering, as soon as we got outside I tied

her up and threw her over my motherfucking saddle, leapt up

onto Geronimo (My horse!) and rode on out of Dodge.

I’ve still got her at my place, well when I say at my place,

I mean the fucking shed, she still screams like a banshee, it

keeps the chickens awake at night but I’m normally too drunk

to even notice.

Anyway, I’m even starting to fancy the psycho bitch myself,

I don’t know what it is; maybe it’s the way the moonlight

bounces off her spittle, but anyway I’ll let you know how I

get on with her, alright?

© Paul Tristram 2013