Barbie's so sharp
she knows Ken is now broken,
he's just a token of
the doll he once was.

There are
words spoken from seashells,
whispers, but
wedding bells?
no,
the glitter shone for a time and
then faded.

It's gone in a flash,
too much ******* and cash and
nights on the lash with the boys.

Toys that we were,
but now Barbie don't care
she's got ****** and gin hidden
everywhere and
a rope that hangs loose,
a noose at the top of the stairs
no one cares,
not Barbie
not Ken and there's
no action men
anymore.

Everything broken
everything bust and
everything turns as I
touch it to dust,
except
plastic faces,
botox at the races and
never passing the post.

All we can hope for is
another shell on the seashore,
whispers,
for someone to see her.

In 1410 the village of Little Darling was a pretty nice place to live,
it’s houses were stout and wonderful and the people had lots to give,
the lord who owned the area was benevolent, he never ruled with an iron claw,
he spoke with softness and kindness, not knowing a cajoling roar,
he left the people to get on with their lives, unless they needed a helping hand
and then he’d be there to provide a peg up somewhere in his land.
Because of this the folk who made home here had it better then most peasants from this time,
who were condemned to a life of grinding servitude as if their living was a crime,
they were happier and joyful and free from the toil of subjugate,
each second was a pleasure and every minute spent first rate,
however there was one thing they shared with those who spent every day under the cosh;
everyone was filthy, no one liked to wash.
Only about once every 10 days would they pull bathing water from the well,
If they were especially filthy and their stink they wished to quell,
the rest of the time they didn’t care that they resembled a muddy shrub,
or their faces were still covered in last weekend’s off grub,
nor did they think it mattered if their hair was a matted mucky mess
or that compost heap didn’t smell more than their locks, it actually smelt less,
to them water was mainly a drink when their mouths were feeling parched and shoddy,
not a soothing liquid  with which to  cleanse their body.
Everyone in Little Darling didn’t mind being ***** and looking a unhygienic fright,
actually not everyone, everyone’s not quite right.
Alice always wondered why folk didn’t wash
and that’s not because she wanted everyone to be pretty, pristine and posh,
she just pondered as she daily made herself all gleam,
“why does nobody else round here care about being clean?
They all wallow around in their own filth like a burrowed germ,
more buried in soil than a busy earth worm,
I don’t get when there is plentiful water from wells not that far away
why don’t they dose themselves in the aqua good at any point in the day?
She thought, “Of course it’s their own life and if you never harm anyone else you can never do anything wrong,
but how how how can they fester in their own awful pong?”
So every day Alice would get up before she heard the going to work bell
and go and fetch some water to cleanse herself of smell,
she’d make herself all fresh and totally sans of grit and straw
and revel in the gleam she had coming out of every pore.
Everyone else in Little Darling all thought Alice was great,
a truly smashing lass who had tons of friends and mates,
yeah sometimes they’d remark to her “I don’t get your penchant for keeping yourself immaculate if I had to say
but who cares, I love you, have a fantastic day!”
And yes due to the mud in the village sometimes Alice would get herself all shiny and within a couple of hours look like she’d just crawled out of a cave,
but she didn’t mind as starting the day with a sparkle was what she did crave!
One fine day the folk of Little Darling decided to throw a big party as they adored a drink, a chat and a jive,
just have a massive night of  dancing, where they could give appreciation for being alive,
as Little Darling was a ace place they invited another village to join in the hedonism,
as they wanted folk to bask in hours through a wonderful prism!
When Alice heard news of the shindig she let out a chirping coo,
as revelling in the realm of fun was what she was really made to do!
As the week whiled to an end the day of the party came,
Alice could hardly contain herself as carousing ran through her brain,
she picked out her favourite garments feeling all of a super gathering quiver,
and then full of beans moseyed on down to the river,
she washed away with gusto and dressed all primed to go out,
“I’m on my way to get down and groove!” was her gleeful shout.
She started making her path to the good times, feeling all content,
she couldn’t wait to be immersed in the hub of blazing merriment,
as she was walking to the barn where the party was she encountered others making their journey to fun,
lit they all were by the going down sun,
someone said “hey Alice, I reckon you’ve spent an eternity scrubbing yourself for this bash”,
another said “yeah, I bet you’ve wasted hours by the river to get yourself prepared for this night on the lash!”
Alice replied and remarked, “yes I may have used my time getting myself ready and not been able to enjoy the chills and sits
but at least I don’t have hay in my hair like you ******* smelly *****!”
Everyone burst out laughing and happy all skipped to the revelry,
the slow dusk sky reflecting calm as far as the eye could see.
They jaunted into the barn with the music already in full swing,
the harp, drum, lute and trumpet players all doing their tuneful thing,
Alice grabbed a jar of foaming ale and started moving her body to the beats,
each noise in the air a consummate amazing treat!
Then from out of the corner of her eye she spotted a guy with dancing around in the air,
who'd cleaned his garb,
and washed his hair!
Alice thought "Wow! That guy doesn't look like his stench would make my opticals weepy,
in actual fact he makes my heart all leapy!"
They saw each other and felt swirls and sparks,
a knowing of what could and will be lover’s larks,
a chance they both knew could never be missed
and finalised their first look synchronicity with a longing kiss.
Everybody else stopped,
turned to look,
and knew a little bit more about
loves' rushing roars,
and couldn't help but breaking out
into a round of applause.
Alice felt a dawn,
reciprocated the smile of her fresh guy
and hand in hand they left the barn,
on their lips a glimpse of forever,
and went to find a empty stable,
where they could become all
***** together.

Every thought I conjour is venomous
Specifically hot and pressed 'insensitive'
Literally lost in bottled hot headedness
Weighty when I slog a verbal cosh with these sentences
Hasty without thought at a cost to everybody's detriment
An onslaught with no relevance...
I wish I'd stopped...
If only I'd stopped...

A lowly wooden bench lent itself to a lonesome aged narrow man in a common garden in the smallest hour of the day’s beginning. In the thick haze of the summer’s waking light the common is thinly met with the company of others. Just an old man and his acquainted bench who came to give his eyes sight to the grass and trees, and to rid himself of thought.
He and the bench creak as he sits back; clutching at the satchel veiled among his dull drudged garb that bleeds into his pallid slack and cracked skin.
The wiry hairs bushed around his nostrils recoil to the deep inhale before the sigh, his yawning blue eyes sliding behind a milky glaze follow a bushy tailed rodent hurry into the confidence of a tree.
Through all nonchalance a pair of hobgoblin lugs under a brown woollen hat slides up the flanks of his head to outlying drowned tones of laddish laughs and lewd levity, an unseen clutch of kids filling the common’s spread with their foolish louting prances. Intimidating the preferred and performed with their innocuous idiocies; a mere asocial array of follies without the thought of good manner.
The thoughts of the old man are only briefly drawn; his ears leave the sounds of reckless recreation and back to the hushing song of the swaying grass, the rustling shake of the seasoned leaves on gorged and drooping branches. To his own wilted waning heart, the tremors, quiver and shivers within his own cage, his thoughts turned to his own temporal passage and to the re-joining of his love, of whom no longer lays her head on his shoulder, whom no longer wraps herself around his arm on the lowly park bench.
His lowest lip gives to an emotive tremble as he heaves himself over to the hem of the seat, his hands without any other part to play; frenetically tickle one another with frail kinked fingers.
With what little his body has left to give the eyes well to the upmost point of a tear, as he feels the weight of his wallet in his side trouser pocket against the rough of his skin. Where there within lays an image of a most loved face in a prized time, so that it may be remembered so it may fetch ease to a remittent floundering morsel of a man who could justly with the dead.
The photograph within his keeping need not be looked upon from under the shine of a laminated holding; it needs only to be there, only to be known that it is there.
The satchel was undid and fetched from within the clutter came an elderly notebook now held in his hands. A phlegmy husk of something said breeches his gummy chops, and he spits as he spat shouting out at the still of the garden.
“You should always write more than you do,” she would say, “you are better for it when you do and it lifts me as it does you, when you do.”
The old man reads from the notebook with a weak hate for the world.

“Am I for the worms yet? Am I to be from this rock?
Am I not yet too mad for this mad maddening world?
Four corners of an empty house, a homeless place of curling wallpaper and aloneness for company.
A room in a vagrant house with no light to fill it with a decrepit fool for a keeper
His stink stinks the walls for days as the blow flies form a speckled haze as they feast in filth of his unnoticed demise
With no manner of intention and for relation or friend, there is no cause and no mention for any to attend
He will rot with the house and his memory with it, with his memory does his love die and together they are ghosts in a world where ghosts do not exist.”

The old man pauses as he forcibly triggers one finger to his temple and ***** in his lips. His empty cries fall to a mumble as his hands tremble with his dear notebook in their grasp.

“Take me now cruel are the fates, take me now and rid me
The worms will welcome me, my flesh for an endless night
My life for a world without this life, for a life without his world
I would hold with a brim smile if it was not for my memory of her, if she was not to be lost at the close of this stint
I know not or want knowledge; I seek not of a design and not of meaning
Just a cure for this affliction for my must to her who brings me so much sorrow
Through blissful ages I can no longer hold, and can barely recall
We are all just people who will soon be once living, to be unlived and to forget is a conflict in myself
I have no answer as I have no question, you can have no answer to a question you do not seek nor ask
I dare not speak but I have no end for this, I have no solace and I have no end.”
The old man; the poor old man began to close his dear aged notebook and find the need to bring a smile, perhaps a moment of lunacy to calm the tightening knot beneath his breast.
He pulled a scratching cackle from the pit, wild and uncooked wiping the drool from the crook of his maw with the back of his blotched, mottled hand.
The old man found some seconds of a stoic amenity as his wild eyes grew gallant for those mere moments before the grey metal heft of his sullen vesture fell to his shoulders, he became heavy once more as the world retook him and cloaked again in the present - the light ebbed from him as swiftly as it came. The old man reproached his satchel to humbly return his dear old notebook.
There was a crack like a pick to ice with a hollow thud like a boot to wood as an immediately dissipating claret mist fizzed above his head. The make shift found-about cosh still swinging through the air and over his crown, the old man’s wilted body twisted and slumped to the floor face first. The concrete path before him tearing at the skin of his chin, his frail bones cracked as the meagre weight of his body forced itself into his neck. Laying perverse and unnatural the life was soaked up into his woollen hat and out across the concrete, to the grass – to the worms that writhed below the muck. His eyes were as lifeless as they were when he lived.
They did not wait for the gentle hiss of the spray or the bubbles that popped in the pool that surrounded the old man. They had snatched the satchel and ran off into the spread of the common until they were nothing but outlying drowned tones of laddish laughs and lewd levity.
Crazy old *******.
A lowly wooden bench has lent itself to a lonesome aged narrow man in a common garden in the smallest hour of the day’s beginning. In the thick haze of the summer’s waking light the common is thinly met with the company of others. Just an old man and his acquainted bench who came to give his eyes sight to the grass and trees, and to rid himself of thought.

A bit skint,
so,
I thought a 3D printer could print me some dosh,
now I'm under the cosh and
heading for clink,
you wouldn't think it was right,
I might see if a 3d printer can
print for me
a file in a cake,
but it's got to be fake or
I'd
print for me
a sunny sea and golden sands,
in the hands of man a 3D printer can
be dangerous.

You've got that far away look, they're giving you the liquid cosh and they're 'nutting you off' because you embarrass them, you're going to Broadmoor or maybe to Rampton and they'll put the clamps on to keep you inside, a drink of largactil, an antipsychotic, depressingly familiar and then it'll **** ya and the ****'s in the shuffle, the wasting of muscles, the brain cells that flake away in that far away look.

State sponsored death camps filled up with old tramps and those that don't fit,
a drink of largactil, just enough so it kills you, just enough 'til your eyes pop out of your head, but you're not really dead see, they'll not have a post mortem because that wouldn't suit them in Broadmoor or Rampton they just put the tramps on
a higher dosage.

god, if only the english could un-numb their R, and return to the rattle-snake trill... what wonders could be born... every time i hear an english person pronounce the R... i think they're about to swollow their tongue, as if rolling it backwards to numb the R... yes... swollow... swo-swo... only cockneys of east london say swa-swa swansey... *****... deep in essex you: ooh... ah, eric cantona... swollow, akin to saying the word: slow... rather than slough (berkshire, burp-shy-err)... **** me english is fun, it's like owning a g.i. jone action finger, and still playing with it aged 34... compared to all other languages (notably the european ones), english is like play-dough... you can **** with it so much that you can almost forget being bilingual; and no, whatever the upper-crass tell you... trilling an R is not a posh thing... it's talk of the 2nd serprent in the garden... the rattlesnake who warns you, rather than tempts you to try and eat from the tree he's wrapped around.

two words that spring to mind,
   out of the blue;
words that sound better in a native tongue
    than in an acquired tongue
of saxon descent
            mingled with norman -
the words?
    military instruments -
(a) originally *maczuga
   but with my diacritical stressors:
                     máczūga...
    i give it a rest there making
           the foreign word sound better,
after all, we have alternatives:
    cudgel, truncheon, cosh, nightstick
  & bludgeon...
   still... the m'ah-choo-g'ah (ga-ga)...
   i don't know... but i know what sounds
   better in
(b) topór      (acute o? t'oh-poor),
meaning? axe... now tell me the foreign
word sound more grave
                   than the native word?
  the (a) argument
  has worthy counterparts, but (b)?
        tell me you wouldn't feel a shiver
  hearing topór,
              when otherwise hearing axe?

p.s.
    the same with the word
                       for hammer -
    i.e. młot (mmm-what?) -
               of **** me, the tool has a baby,
the belittled henryk młotek miodowicz
        (henry - little hammer - honkeysuckling).

I was under stress,
my life was a mess,
it was time to confess,
as I was a sinner,
but then came a chance to be a winner,
I was challenged by the Devil
to a game of Chess.

Win, and I'd be forever free
from his curse,
I'd find fame and fortune,
fatten my purse.
Lose and, well who cares?
At that time things could not get worse.

The game between the Devil and I
was looking level for a while,
then spread out across his face,
the faintest trace
of crooked smile,
He spoke and my belly filled
with the vilest bile.

"From Heaven I fell,
and from Hell I have been sent,
sweet lies I tell with ease,
to tease and torment,
those that refuse to bow and repent.
I've always had you under my spell,
we did not meet by accident.

Your out of your depth mate,
your like a china plate,
in a bullshop.
Off you pop.

Your out of your depth,
I bet your ******* your pants,
you've a snowball in hells chance,
your San Marino playing France,
a peasant facing knight
on horse with shield and lance,
If I was you I'd yeild,
are you sure you  want to dance?

Your out of your depth,
your Del boy trading on wall street,
you'll have no joy,
your fading before you peak.

Your out of your depth,
your easy meat,
I dont have to cheat,
I'll crush you under my feet,
so **** it up
and taste the defeat.

Are you insane,
can you not see?
You cannot win,
you and this game
have no compatibility,
your out of your depth,
like a scuba diver
trying to swim
the Sea,
of Tranquility.

Your out of your depth,
out of your league,
like a Sunday team,
living the dream,
they've got so far,
drawn to play at the Etihad,
and now thier gonna look bad,
City'll make them look shity,
because they are.

Life for you was not so smooth,
so you took on the Devil,
like you had something prove,
now your out of your depth,
and boy, it is your move."

I was like a seal,
surrounded by every type of shark,
at half past dinner time O'clock,
I'm the main meal, this cant be real,
its about to get dark.
Then his next words made me squeal,
his tongue was like an eel,
gave me a real shock.

I knew by then this game I'd lost,
but did not truly understand the cost,
this game would not my rapture bring,
but before he did end it,
and capture my king,
he stared in my soul
and started to sing,
my ears did fracture
and ring and sting.

He was not nice.
"Now its time for a sacrifice,
and you boy, are that pawn.
I've been watching you
since the day that you were born,
you turned away from all that to you
had been sworn,
turned your back on paradise,
for a hedonistic life of souless vice,
from salvation you've been forever torn.

Your every selfish wish,
and to get rich, was your goal,
but you fool, lifes a *****,
this game has cost your mortal soul.

Your out of your depth,
and under the cosh,
you took me on,
now suffer the loss
and bear that cross.

Out of your depth son
I had you beat before we begun,
you were Icarus
flying too close to the sun,
full of belief,
but you never could of won.

Your out of your depth,
like a rabbit munching a steak,
you've had it,
tried punching well above your weight,
an amature slain by a great,
to be saved, for you its now too late,
except your fate,
before me kneel
and feel the hate.
Checkmate!"

Well my luck sure did run out,
I guess with the Devil
you should not mess about,
gave up my chance to be saved,
In favour of all the things
I desired and craved.
On Judgement day
you'll hear me cry out,
you'll hear me shout.

All ties to God I did sever,
to play a game I could never win,
against a former angel,
that fallen angel, dressed in leather.
I took one hell of a beating,
for breakfast, me he's eating.
He's far too clever,
I'll never defeat him, never.

Out across the high terrain through avenues of sky
Flashing by clear rivers swum perhaps, by you and I.
Crossing cloistered cities clogged by tepid rotten air
Whilst  crucified by temperamental knotting of the hair.
Howling at disparity in scowling at the way
We all reacted differently to what they had to say.
Globalising gigabytes of hurt and hate and spite
Despite diverse distention when day obscured to night,
Black and white and brindle mixing hot beneath a moon
Confusing you who rationalise disharmony’s cold tune….
Pause to catch the nuance lost twixt shades of grey and green
Then riot for the kewpie doll to wear the crass obscene.
Raging fields of fire in a world of spleen awash
Antagonised at variance in chosing knife or cosh,
Antagonised disastrously across this sphere of man
Leaving sad distraught, discerning weeping blood into the sand.

M.
16 August 2017

There was a line going on in her head
'to be or not to be..' dead,
but she'd read Shakespeare so
that was fine

lines on her face
haggard and drawn
words from her lips
'wish I'd never been born'
that wasn't her choice

the voice in her head
Shakespeare

to be not to be too dead

and as so often occurs when
her mind wandered
she got it mixed up

Wanting hemlock,
all
she got
was
electric soup
white lightning
a
chemical cosh

no one's posh when they're ******.

it's a saga
cheap lager
a rough bed to lay on
crayon her lips and
she slips
slowly away.

How little I seem to have done today
How little there is to show
How busy I’ve been
It’s so terribly clean
Now I’ve tidied it all away

I think he’d be pleased
He was house-proud you see
There isn’t a speck of dust in it
And nor anymore
Is there gore on the floor
There’s a visitor due any minute

He’d have been mortifided
If I hadn’t tidied
Poor Mr McGinley
I sliced him quite thinly
He took it quite calmly
And was only alarmed
When his blood hit the ceiling
And started congealing before he could reach for a cloth
I was going to roll the bits up in the carpet
But he said it would ruin it
So I posted him piecemeal down the waste-disposal unit
I heard his teeth grinding
Did I need reminding that filth was bad for his health
And did I think the sink would clean itself
“That’s typical of you
And us with visitors due.”

Now the cutlery’s washed
I polished the cosh
I wiped down the walls
It looks terribly posh
So there’s nothing to show how busy I’ve been
He was always so eager to leave the house clean

As leave it he has
Run off with the neighbour and taken the cash
Or so I told the police when I asked them to call
I think that’s Plod now
Why doesn’t he knock?
I bend down and peer through the hole in the lock
Oh no! He’s lifted the lid on the drain

Up through the grating like toast
Pops the ghost of my dissected next-of-kin!
And though -thus far- he’s taken it calmly
The voice of my salamied sweetheart
Is bending the ear of the boy on the beat
“Don’t you dare forget to wipe your feet!”

Plod peers through the key-hole and we see eye to eye
He winks and says goodbye.

porcelain goddesses have farted
in supreme orifices
and wafted their odious reign
all over their realms

its time to extract at the sign of the black horse
airey farty an all
non linguistic programming is the new black
time to cosh the buck and we do not mean cash

mind the yobs who hit and run
needs no training
**** Bobby of the militant brigade is free
to impregregnant under-age girls

all the work shy dross at the pubs
needs no training or punishments
the drunks and those absent fathers who do the deed
and then take a hike are fine examples of masculinity

but do hold on, there are more in this hollowed cage
the players who skims from one to the other are just dandy
the ones always round their mates and never home is not clingy
the neglectful wusses who are forever gaming are tops
the useless sops dense as dishwater are the stuff of dreams
the abusive drunks who roll in at closing time to batter the wives
are such wonderful fellows
the cheaters and liars who have our goddesses tearing their silky
hairs out, are perfect gentlemen who deserve gold medals

which leaves our porcelain goddesses all the time in the world
to practise the subtleties of NLP, inflict punishment and training
on the stable, decent, solid, reliable, attentive and confident man
who says it as it is and refuses to be intimidated by narcissists

So our dear porcelain goddesses have farted
from their  supreme orifices and wafting pollution all over
they have a buck to break in and punishment to administer
who wants the decent men when they have their pick of the indecent drosses who populate the worlds of porcelain goddesses

Got a story
about this VIP, titled
but its mostly gossip and rumours
the Sub-editor livened immediately
what are you waiting for, write it straight away
but no real facts, nothing substantiated, says I
listen says he, we're tabloids not broad sheet
not ****** Wall Street Journal, not the fricking Times

Go get me the story
write it up, give it the Joe Bloggs slant
Yeah! the Joe Bloggs slant, euphemism for commoners
in the Tabloid Journo world Joe Bloggs is our Target audience
Deep thinking or reasoning is not expected from Joe Bloggs
yet he has ideas and thoughts on everything
He loves gossip and rumours pitched at his cerebral level
the more absurd, ridiculous, embarrassing and juicy the better

Sub Editor says
Over his papers in the day, Joe Bloggs doen't want feel good news
he care little about Climate Change or the state of the Sterling
he wants to hear about who's doing who,
he wants to read about how the Movers and Shakers err and fall
he want to read about losses to rich people
and trouble and strife for the privilege
Listen this is a person that feels under the cosh most of the time
bossed about, always counting pennies
worries here, disappointment there
not particularly bright or enterprising, your bog standard
mediocre, and off course they have frustrations fed attitudes

So I wrote the story for Joe Bloggs
inventive, salacious, mind numbing exaggerations
juicy fabrications, belligerent projections and half truths wrapped
in bog standard distortions and even a fair bit of delusions
If I write David Beckham actually have three testicles
who's going to call me a liar, will DB drop his pants to prove otherwise and suing will cost him money and time
and even help sell our papers more

Man, these privileged lot are on a hiding to nothing
Joe Bloggs loves his fantasies, his escapism into the pains and sufferings of the Privilege people
He lives to poke and **** them
salivates as he tears them down in his mind
making up the craziest scenario, wishing them nothing but
outrageous fortunes
That's how he finds peace in his misfortunes, his lacks, his sad
pathetic miserable unfulfilling, disappointing lives

Yeah!....I know Joe Bloggs real well, he was not a friend of mine....