A razor is my nemesis, because the blades do not behave
Gouging cuts into my skin, that is the path they pave
But it is unavoidable, I have become a bathroom slave
To rid myself of excess hair, from a shave that I don't crave

Ever since the birth of man, it goes back many years
A growth around your lip and chin, extending to your ears
It may go down particularly well, among the bents and queers !
I'd rather have a smoother face, to avoid Ducky's and Dears

Why do men want ****** hair, why do they want a beard
Bits of stubble sticking out, a design that's rough and weird
A Goatee isn't very good, it's cattle that's not reared
You wouldn't get tickled or scratched, if beards had not appeared

Okay some guys might look alright, when they are neat and trim
Scruffy ones they just look bad, and some are rather grim
I don't want hairs growing on my legs, or any other limb
Nice smooth skin is my preference, and it's not a passing whim

There is just one problem, something I would love to ditch
Hair removal is a pain, and it's an evolution glitch
When the morning comes along, I have that same old itch
Having to shave is immanent, and a *******

How many ****** shaves, does a man have to endure
Eventually your skin goes dry, from this old daily chore
You get cut far too often, I don't want it anymore
Razor blades no longer work, and that's a shaving flaw

Girls complain about their periods, it must be so frustrating
With all that blood just seeping out, when you are menstruating
You wouldn't like it daily, there is a period of waiting
It only happens once a month, so it's not as irritating

I'd rather shave twelve times a year, without anymore hair traces
No cuts and grazes for a month, in many different places
Unscrupulous razor companies, would have no more hairs and graces
Hairy smiles would be wiped off, from their stupid corporate faces

A close shave does not exist, I think it's a fare bet
That manufactures cut your throat, with electric dry and wet
All the claims of the best, that a man can get
Sharp shavers are a fabrication, and that includes Gillette

The cheaper brands are just as bad, shops own brand or BIC
You may as well tape a knife, to a piece of stick
Are potato peelers any sharper, would they be a valid pick
Would chipped skin be as bad, or just get on your wick

One shave is not sufficient, you have to do it twice
There's always bits left behind, which isn't very nice
I would've tried the No No, an expensive hair device
Razor blades and shavers, have such a high tagged price

It makes me cross and angry, because there is no reward
When buying beauty products, which they say you can afford
Why cant you have a body switch, or a desired level cord
So you can turn of your hair, and sod Wilkinson Sword

Excess hair I do not want, except for on my head
Is stress the cause of going thin, when it begins to shed
Would it not be better, coming of your face instead
Shaving would then be reduced, and not something to dread

Many men go through the curse, of losing it on top
The older that you become, your head hairs for the chop
A full crown is all I want, why take away my mop
I didn't want a bad harvest, by losing half my crop

The only place I wanted it, I've lost my style and flair
Why does a bald patch appear, why does your bonce go bare
Is it my comeuppance, with the creation of a glare
All I want from follicles, is my head full of hair

If you want to have a beard, then that is fare enough
Don't be mistaken for a *****, by looking like a scruff
I don't want a hairy face, or stubble that is rough
Or a weird beard with scraggy parts, or any yuk *** fluff

Some men just let beards grow, and maybe that's just crazy
It's not as though they look sweet, or as pretty as a daisy
Personal hygiene may not count, if they are always lazy
To me it isn't fashionable, it makes you look old and hazy

Who wants to be a yeti, but perhaps it is too late
And wild men roaming in the woods, is evolutions own cruel fate
No matter how much I shave, it's the scratchy bits I hate
Wasted shaves when hair returns, why does it lay in wait

How much has man evolved, how much as man progressed
Personally I think the state of hair, has radically regressed
It's based on my own experience, so perhaps I am obsessed ?
Who wants a hairy monkey, when your naked and undressed ?

There is a smooth advantage, when you are misbehaving
A kiss feels much more sensual, without the crazy paving
This is all that drives me, although it is enslaving
Even with the nice things, I'm not craving for a shaving

She creases her forehead in confusion
She wonders what they say as they pass her by
What are they saying, to whom and why?
They murmur, frown, giggle and titter
As if they have no emotional filter
The little she hears almost brings her to tears
Do they dance to the tune of some shadow puppeteer?

Call them rumors, gossip, lies, hearsay or fabrication
Call them improvised news or forged information
Little difference would it make.
Malicious whispers, known to topple empires
Sunder relationships and cause death
Her chest hurts and she can’t seem to take a breath
As her heart tumbles in her chest, her mind is drawn to Wilkinson v. Downton
In that moment, she could almost relate to Miss Wilkinson.

Ware those Whispers
They travel far and wide
But their source is always close to home
Who tattled? Was it a loved one or a close friend?
She may never know.
Ware those whispers.
They may have as little as a kernel or as much as a boatload of truth
At this point, the defence of truth is surely moot
She called them girls, squad, friends and besties
In their company, she was merely lollygagging
Behind her back, their tongues were wagging

A mere misrepresentation can cause complete devastation
They scoff at her frantic utterances of truth
To them, it is no more than mere superstition
She retreats into her Fortress of Solitude
In this bubble of quietude, she lifts her hands in gratitude
Though she knows it is no more than a blanket fort of self-deception

They continue to natter and chatter
She ceases her cries of protest, for it no longer matters
In calm desperation, she starts to twine the hanging rope
But wait, suicide is still a crime under the law
She stands helpless as the whispers sneak past her defences
She grips her head in an effort to drown out their voices
To this they mutter, “look, surely she is non compos mentis”

Dear child, let them run their mouth for God is thy witness
Guard your tongue for the walls have ears
Calm your heart and hear no whispers
Let them speak, they are no more than vipers
Do not be sad, though you may lose some friends
It is only the beginning and not the end
They may think they have you assessed
But they have no idea how much you’re blessed
And at all times, ware those whispers.

South Shields memory time.
John Smallshaw
23 April 2013 at 09:01 · London ·


Grandad did keep a pig and chickens also a monkey
which was either sat on his shoulder
or up on the clothes rack
which was set high up in the kitchen,

sometimes we would unfasten the rope that tied the rack
and did that monkey chatter as it fell towards the kitchen table,

happy days.

My Grandad kept in the back garden ,
a big fat rosy coloured pig,
not the one that did a jig
but another
which was certainly a smelly thing.
Grandpa would bring it bits and bobs and
the pig would grunt in its approval
until the day came for the pig's removal.

It ended up in 16 dinner bowls and on one
big serving plate.
I have to say pig tasted great
with apple sauce
but of course
I miss him all the same.

Tumbleweed
Ted Old
John Merchant,
Joan Harling
Edith Smith
David Wilkinson,
Mike Waldron
Marie Ainsworth
Ruth Bell,
Lucy Ritchie

A list undignified by death
In an instant deflated, unwound
Vibrant yet now not a breath
Missing, lost, not found

I mourn every one of their names
And all that each one implied
Merely a lifetime ago
They came, they lived, they died.

The bluntness has ruined my mood
With the arrogant stealing of life
It demanded all my attention
Then cynically wielded the knife

I'm trying but their voices are fading
As my brain's recordings wear out
And the clarity of all their faces
Is blurred with the pallor of doubt

So all I have now are some photos
Flat caricatures of their lives
Each one replacing my memory
With a past that cannot be revived

Relentless my list will grow longer
Crushing for each name a line
And my heart will grow ever more heavy
Till the last name that's added,
is mine.

for i am a young dude

and i do my art and my writing

and i can get you a root

with anyone in this world

elle macpherson would be nice you say

i can get you a root with her any day

kylie minogue would be pretty rad ya see

i can get you a root with her yeseree

what about lisa wilkinson from the today show

i can get you a root with her any day, buddy

don’t call me buddy for it’s so downgrading

cause if you call me buddy i won’t get you a woman

do you want a woman

i can get ya one

i can find a beautiful woman

so i can ****** my way in

for i am a ******

i have the prefect woman in my data base

that you’ll be interested in

so do you wanna see the woman

i have lined up for you

or do you wanna be square

cause if you are square

you won’t be able to get there

cause with my kind of woman mate,

you’ll be happy

**** beautiful tremendous women

see i am a little young dude

just put your head in my lap

and i will handball it back to you, dudes

cause i am a cool young dude who has a lot of fun

i can find ya a woman and then

i will give  ya a kick up the ***

for i am a young dude a little young dude

who loves life a lot

with a dad that wants to stay in my life

by getting in my ****** way

yeah mate yeah mate, i am the coolest dude around

cool people don’t fight

cool people find women for less fortunate people

i give women to people in reference they will leave me alone

i am a young dude little young dude, i am a little young dude

****** oath i am a guy, cause i wanna be young all my life

want a woman, i can get you one RIGHT NOW

Welcome to my special place,
Where all the walls that keep me safe,
Slowly start to fade away,
And I disintegrate,
Sliding back down into,
My drug-induced oblivion.

What am I?
That’s the question that hurts the most.
It’s the question I’ve been drowning in,
My love, my thrill, my agony.

Who am I?
How did I get here?
Is anything real?

Today I didn’t really wake up,
My experience just started playing again.
I can’t grasp it firmly anymore,
That connection to reality,
I hope I find it once again.

It’s a scary place,
A lonely place,
My drug-induced oblivion.

It’s too much,
I can’t bear the burden.
To love as much,
And feel this empty.

I can look deep into the eyes of another human being and feel like I’m the only thing that exists.

Erase me from the present day,
Till I no longer think, and no longer feel.

I drink, I smoke, I meditate,
I find a way to alleviate,
The pain I’m in,
There’s no escape,
So once again,
I stumble down,
My drug-induced oblivion.

Is there any choice?
Is the outcome always the same?
Can I avoid my nature?

As my mind leaves this world,
Remember me,
And pray that I may never wake
From this dream I’m in,
My journey, my song, my slumber,
It finally ends.

As one last time,
I let go,
I slip away,
I settle in,
To my world, my heaven, my anchor,
My drug-induced oblivion.

Sam Wilkinson

No don (except me)
doth trumpet within the aborted
barren reach of freedoms within expansive realm,
I annexed courtesy manifest destiny,
which peoples now inhabiting said jurisdiction
circumscribed by following coordinates -
Latitude: 40° 16' 22.20" N
Longitude: -75° 29' 29.39" W
and for better or worse

must abide by decrees
promulgation declared today May 21st, 2024,
whence Poet of Perkiomen Valley
issues proclamation,
regarding any living person
paying blind obedience
lest posse comitatus act enforced
otherwise Herr Harris
will bring to fore active duty personnel

to "execute the laws";
however, there be disagreement
over whether this language
may apply to troops used
in an advisory, support, disaster response,
or other homeland defense role,
as opposed to domestic law enforcement
to challenge aforesaid claims
which forthwith ownership of said territory

foremost allows, enables and provides
yours truly to enact legislation,
and especially restitution of comstock act
predicated upon due diligence
guaranteeing appropriation
of all and every rights affecting
master and slave
linkedin with said domain.

Welcome to the dictatorship
(er rather presidency)
of Putin diehard adherent.

Matter of fact, a favorite author of mine
crafted the following words of inspiration,
which evocation will help shed figurative light
on caricatures of terror reign as forty fifth president
targeted by political cartoonists,
but struggled to come up with an image that sticks.

In october 2016, Vanity Fair
made a video of four of its cartoonists—
Edward Sorel, Steve Brodner,
Philip Burke, and Robert Risko—
drawing Donald Trump.

They clearly enjoyed themselves,
exploring every aspect of his physique:
 his “girth,” the fact that
“there’s so much of him” (Burke);
the hair that “essentially closely a beret
flipped forward on his head” (Risko);
the eyes that show “greed, disdain” (Burke);
the “marvelously rat like” nose (Brodner);
the mouth a “sphincter muscle” (Risko);
the “******” look (Sorel);
the ****** features that resemble
“**** holes in the snow” (Brodner).

And now? How have artists and cartoonists
dealt with Trump since he became president?
We’ve seen cartoons of the orange
potus smooching Vladimir Putin
and groping the Statue of Liberty.
We’ve seen him drawn (by Barry Blitt
in The New Yorker) as a fat-assed golfer
driving ***** into the White House.
We’ve seen him caricatured (by Pat Oliphant

for The Nib) as a preening SS officer
being heiled by Steve Bannon.
We’ve seen him portrayed
(by Signe Wilkinson of the Philadelphia
Daily News) linking arms
with a Confederate and a ****.
We’ve seen him depicted
(by Mike Luckovich
of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution)

as Jabba the Hutt, holding Lady Liberty in chains.
We’ve seen him represented (by Matt Wuerker
in Politico) as a kook in a straitjacket.
We’ve seen him rendered
(by Ann Telnaes of The Washington Post)
as a red-faced fathead sitting
on the toilet while he plots
to pull out of the Paris climate accord.

Putin (also fell prey
to his fair share of cartoonists)
not only as Vlad the Impaler reincarnate
(a notion in mind of at least one writer),
but also various and sundry other manifestations.

The self styled ruthless ****
classified as a voivode
(prince) of Wallachia
(part of modern Romania).

Surrounded by enemies
that included the Hungarians,
the Ottomans, his younger brother,
and Walachian nobility,
Vlad employed extremely
cruel gruesome measures
to inspire fear in those
who opposed him.

He earned his nickname
by impaling his enemies on stakes.

No argument Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin
equals and invariably
will outrank Vlad the Impaler
the second son of Vlad Dracul
who became ruler of Wallachia in 1436.

Impossible mission to comprehend
propensity exhibiting characteristics
linkedin as impish, hellish, ghoulish... fiend
whereby pathological pretensions
besotted (punch drunk with delight)
to incinerate, eradicate, annihilate,
essentially to deplorably,
heinously, loathingly... interblend
all manner of atrocious, deleterious,
insidious, opprobrious, vicious... lend
ding his own vainglorious
trademark to offend
**** sapiens who strive toward
repairing ruptures versus to rend
usurpation of life, liberty
and continuity of civilization to upend.

Worst nightmare scenario
unfolding before our collective eyes
Ukraine suffers blitzkrieg
Russian soldiers devastatingly
carpet bomb major metropolitan areas
civilian population suffers
major loss of innocent lives
linkedin with accompanied
psychological fallout, especially affecting
babies, children and youth.

All commands issued by autocratic monster
probably housed within secure bunker,
meanwhile countless thousands
or millions of battle fatigued people hunker
among ruins gingerly negotiating
their way thru rubble analogous to spelunker.

Though yours truly removed (think physically),
where chaos and pandemonium
run amuck and terror unruly,
overt rampant upheaval plagues
long established generations of Slavic peoples,
this commonplace American
experiences vicarious grief,
when tragedy viewed online
and/or television heart wrenching images
also evoke anger being
linkedin to most abominable, horrible,
reprehensible, creatures
that roamed the terrestrial firm
since time immemorial.

Major war crimes against humanity
necessitate urgent punishment,
if in fact such a global entity exists
to condemn and convict the incontestable tyrant,
yet never in the annals of twenty first century
geopolitical webbed zeitgeist
did self anointed sovereign
access nuclear weapons
to obliterate fellow Earthlings.

Mathematics is one of the most efficient means of approaching the great secret, the secret that lies beyond all we can at present know or imagine. It doesn't so much describe that secret as imply that there is one.

According to Alec Wilkinson
New York Times
2022