Happy Birthday, Bondage Bitch

Pisstake of romantic era, about BDSM.  If reading aloud, crudely force the fourth line to rhyme with the second.  The idea is that the poem becomes more intense and affectionate as it progresses, reflecting the development of relationships.

Three and twenty winters ere,
discharged bloody from the womb.
Now life's spat you out right here,
dripping with my cum.

Our dual, mind and form entwined:
your harvest, in moonlight, basks.
This fell eve is yours, Samhain:
chocolate and masks.

Jelly moulds and rolls of silk;
sweet fidelity and whores.
We fuck within their dead ilk's
sepulchral doors.

I wonder if that cold host,
that bound, chained and buried crew,
seeing us, would raise a toast:
happy birthday, you.

Wetware

I wrote this for a friend a long while ago!

[CHORUS:]
I'm gonna short circuit, my wires crossed,
I've been disconnected, my memories have been lost.
Don't wanna wait for Masamune's solid state shell.
Just pass me that fucking scalpel, I'll do it all by myself.

Society is a charade,
it's our parade of the laws we've made
and the souls we've saved.

I augment my cranium so I can feel.
I got neodymiums and modules of steel.
Though my flesh may be torn, or my senses depressed,
I'm implanted babylon!

[CHORUS]

My world became a maze of metal plates
and logic gates and opiates.

I insert an armature of silicon di,
so I can know my temperature when I'm high.
I despise the sanctified, faith and pride.
You're beings of meat, brains, bone and hide.

[CHORUS]

Flattery

This is a song I wrote a while ago.  Should be recording it soon with my band.  Hooray!  It's malicious because it is written about several people, blurred together to hide their identities.

I don't want to seduce you
I want to play in your band.
One moment of intense emotion,
I literally fucked up the chance.

Her tattoo is a gift,
I am flattered by it.
Inked on some maddened night.
Our relationship is
meaningless and shit,
wrecked by being fucked all the time.

There is art beneath her skin
I think I'm inside.
Now you won't be friends or kiss
You just want fucked in the mind.

I am a cliché:
I realised I'm gay;
I'm tortured and tall and stuff.
Please distract me,
as much pain as you please.
Please could you destroy my trust?

I like someone warped.
Getting kicks from licking a corpse.
You lovely people
are so happy yeah
You are so beautiful
You aren't my type
You are so lovely
You tasted so good that night

The Ballad of D. Crombie

This is a tribute to a friend of mine who writes songs and does everything real quick.

If you go out into the scene
you'll meet a man called D. Crombie.
It's inevitable see, 'cus his strange addiction
means he must play shows, or he lies there twitchin'.
He'll gig your house,
he'll gig your kitchen,
supporting cover bands who think they're bitchin'.
I'd say he's good, but he won't care if he sounds shite:
all that really matters is he plays again tonight.

Erections

I think some erections
Must have been designed by
Isambard Kingdom Brunel.
Their steely permanences stand
(In spite of heavy use and weathering)
Like totems
To that long stiffened engineer.

Two stories contrasting banality with emotive in-universe fiction

Reflective Tabard

The red lipstick ran out before I could finish writing. I had to get the cleaner from the kitchen. I got distracted and ate a yoghurt, and dropped the spoon. It stuck to my stocking. Pretty annoyed. It left a stain so I dabbed it off.

The other cloths were in the wash, so I washed that one, then wiped the mirror and started again in burgundy. This time I wrote it out neater.

I wondered if it would be sexier if it wasn't so neat, but there wasn't time to change anything. I waited.

Closer to six, I had a glass of wine. It got cold, so I put on a dressing gown. I stayed very quiet. It felt like a vigil, so that the air could collect all of me, and this silent lust, and waft it like pheromones over everything. I was pretty excited.

He came in later, still wearing his reflective tabard. He was in a really jolly mood; he'd been to the pub, and was now havering. He bumbled off to “do manly things”.

I felt like he'd ruined the surprise, destroyed the atmosphere. I finished the glass. There was no atmosphere. Just me standing here, wearing a dressing gown and drinking by myself. Would he? Probably. So I went to find him.

He was already asleep, with game controller in hand. Still wearing luminescent safety gear. I watched his reflection as he snored. I looked fat, and the mirror wrote over my fat belly, in burgundy:

I want you in my cunt xxx

God on Canongate

Shy is really loud. Kept reading aloud on the train. No intonation, just volume and rhythm. The performance had a one-to-one correspondence with the meaning and context of his lyrics.

He ignores Clipes. I don't think he sees him, or anything that isn't pure TRUTH JUSTICE PUNK.

He can hear it in your blood-works, just like Moses heard GOD.

All day he sprawled among frayed receipts and old letters, all covered in squint words and terrible rhymes. He gave the impression of a poet composing in a blossomed orchard.

Clipes had nagged that we'd be late, but Shy times everything on his watch. He knows how long it takes to get anywhere, and if he doesn't know, it's probably written down on the back of one of those bus tickets.

So he suddenly got up, at exactly the correct time, and then we were out and to the station. Soon we were shitting it south amongst old drunks and silent, bored students.

At Waverley, Shy became quiet. Suddenly bashful amongst so many commuters. We thanked the conductor for some reason. Shy remarked on how PUNK it was to respect REAL PEOPLE, as long as we bear in mind that his employers are CUNTS.

Canongate, £3 and then we were in. A poor sludge band were opening. Shy grabbed me and pulled me through the din, and random skins, to a table. I saw what he'd spotted through the gloom.

I was with GOD. His beard was long. His morals were pure. He wasn't playing tonight but I was sure he was RIGHT and the WAY and even CLIPES was happy.