Contributor: Paul Tristram

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We each went South
in different directions.
After jiving nervously
about the drainpipe inspections.
A garden spade as a walking stick,
a scarecrow’s coat of blue.
A compass in my boot heel
and an empty bladder too.
I zigzagged the public footpath
jumped the boundary fence.
Grabbed a handful of waterfall, running,
fired a sling-shot at common-sense.
Spoke with a hooting owl
argued with a whining vixen.
Bummed a ferry ride with a mermaid
for one feel of my scars friction.
I found the caves of mystery
but I couldn’t pick the gateways lock.
So I tunnelled right on under it
into the chamber of the Honky Tonk Sock.
It lay upon a golden platform
guarded by a witch or three.
I did my thrust and parry, good
until I got the garment free.
I threw it carefully into my knapsack
and skedaddled out of Dodge.
Whip cracked away home in a frenzy
arrived safely at the Anarchy Lodge.
I was given the Princess’s hand for bravery
but had a wank and gave it back.
I had rescued the Honky Tonk Sock
I was the village hero and that’s a fact!


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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 book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1326241036