Underwear Moths by Paul Tristram

I’m as dry as an Aberavon seafront paving slab
in the third week of July.
But, I’m not letting him anywhere near it…
not even a snifter.
It’s coming up to two years, next month.
I caught the dirty little bastard
pulling his plonker
over Kay’s catalogue underwear models
out in the garden shed last month.
You could hear the gormless cunt
grunting away like a bloody pig in there.
It was noon an’ all, for fuck sake!
Our Shirley and her neighbour Jan was ‘round,
I got them both to fling the door wide-open
and I threw a bucket of cold water over the dip-shit.
Oooh, he didn’t like them two
laughing at his little shrinking cock, I can tell you.
Shaking like a mongrel dog out in the rain he was.
Why? He has no backbone, that’s why…
and I can’t go doing the nasty
with a man without a backbone, it’s pathetic.
He had one, once upon a time…
but, I broke that fucker to smithereens years ago.
Now he’s good for nothing except paying bills,
carrying shopping and getting under my fucking feet.

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) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096 ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036 You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

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