Thursday, 24 December 2009

A Winter affair

I went to the secret apartment many a time that Winter.
Always warm,but musty.
An old smell mixed with washing powder,perfume,damp and cigarettes.
The most comfortable bed i've ever slept in.
And the sex was good but never a chance of love because you were a friends Ex.
And i felt that meloncholy every morning.
Getting dressed
That bedroom ached of it.
you knew that i would never be yours but we still went at each other deranged sometimes.
The detachment making it easier.
I fucking hammered you.
your saliva sweet,cunt tight.
I wasn't supposed to be there.
we were doing it in secret,
selfish maybe for i guessed you were in love with me but pretended not to notice.
Your body,
especially those bee sting tits,
for that Winter,
they were all that mattered.


Fuckin slut teen,
Long gone your innocence and my morality.
And i'm destroyed.
Destroyed by your painted toes,
by your puppy fat plump titties,
by your teddy bear porn pink cunt,
by your asthma pump.
And there you lay.
Hampster face,
And i'm destroyed again.
Destroyed again a million times.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009


A sneer across my face.
We travel before the successful.
We the African princes come toilet cleaners,
we the tired Polish whores,
we the Indian lawyers to be security guards,
we the disgruntled English forced out of jobs once secure.
All sad,all quiet,all together knackered,all humbled.
One day we'll be successful.
A big fuck you to a failed schooling 2 decades before.
Today,tortured spine,broken and worn.
Spent and washed up,
in father's eyes a failure.
Unmarried,skint bitter.

We ride these early mornings.

One day i'll photgraph the tired at my glorious leisure.
Turning them into art for the successful.
One day a bacon sandwich won't seem like a luxury,
Starbucks an irresponsible indulgence.
And i'll return to white sheets and clean carpets.
Return successful to my palace,
give a shit
and flick crumbs on the floor.

Monday, 9 November 2009

The Gallery

Telling ya,
The best place in South London for flesh is the Gallery.
Up the top of Brixton Hill on the right.
A Portugese takeaway.
You can eat in too if you are super cool.
Oh my dayz.
So they have 4 marinades.
Herb,peri peri med and hot and Jedungo(banging heat African sauce)
For £3.50 you can get a star burger.
2 chicken breasts in a bun with a bit of lettuce,tomato and mayo.
Fuck cheese and bacon and all that fancy shit.
this is all you need when it comes to the best chicken sandwich you will ever eat.
I get it Jedungo coz i am a man but it don't fuck ya stomach up like Nandoes does.
This shit is smooth heat.
Even cooler,they give you a handfull of their home made crisps.They are warm.
the Bollox.
Back in the days of old when i actually had a few pence in my pocket,i would go crazy there.
Lamb fucking cutlets!!!!
4 of those bastards cooked with the good shit marinade in a foil container.
I can't bare it.
If you like flesh.
Go to the Gallery.
Them lamb cutlets are like 4 quid.
Their Chicken is the best.
Comes in a white foil bag.
A whole chicken is like £7.50.
It will be the best chicken you have ever eaten.
And Chorizo.A whole chorizo sausage,spliced like a rattlesnakes tail.
Man,you gotta chew that bastard.
Proper hard persons like myself aint afraid of scary sausages.
£2 fuckin 50.
You could easy feed you and ya love one indoors for a tenner.
And she'd be proper in awe of you coz now you is a hunter gatherer and you have just brung her the best feed she's had in time.
One last thing.
They sell the marinade.
Makes Nandoes look stupid.
Telling ya.

Tuesday, 29 September 2009

a drunken train ride home

Open the door
Open the door
You pissed in my face you dirty rass.
Too late mate
where's one supposed to piss.
There aint no can in the guards van.
So the steaming golden ark
showered Lewisham station platform.
Brindle feigning sleep on the floor
rattling the handle you were.
To get at our blood
the unfortunate piss catcher.
seeping in urine from Crukies dirty white pecker.
Still brilliant
even after all these years

Men will understand

The love of my life,
lost count long ago,
of all the cocks she'd rode upon.
Try as i might
oh love of my life,
this i could not forget

Saturday, 19 September 2009

Bukowski Dad

I hate with all my heart
my Bukowski dad
when i hear him talk
of his beloved
Eastern European
labour force

I hate with all my heart
my Bukowski dad
when i hear him talk
of what he could do
when he was on the tools.

Bullshit me you stupid man.
I was there remember,
I was there.

Donkey of the damned

I work,
I am a horse.
I have slightly rough hands and pain in my eyes.
You'll find me in the rain.
Tears rolling down frozen stubbled cheeks.
Grey skies above taunt me of fresh miseries to follow.
The crow,
poised on whithered branch.
Come on then everyone,
Let's all bark at the fucking donkey.
This donkey of the damned

Wonk Unit

Yeah,we've Wonk unit.
We're like hella cool London cats.
Go to the party,guess who's already there?
That's right us.
We'll be the ones dancing on tables,
practicing eye smolders on other guests,
wearing the right jeans
and leaning against walls,smoking and looking just right in thaat West London cool way.
We have model girlfriends too.
Mine's called Nico.
she's a Russian model pretending to be a screwdriver.
The Python's involved with Tamara.She's from Sweden and is the owner of a car(very rich).
Mez dates Goota,a Slavacian oompa loompa.
Yeah that's right,we're cool.
We sing about cool things like laying on women and driving really fast cars around London.
Parking tickets?
Fuck you!
You'll catch us out most week nights at all the right places.
Weekends are for the weekend crowd and that aint cool.
That's zool.


It's like so cool.
Inject it straight into our asses we do.
Brown needles.
That's right.
cement mixer,
scaffold board,
up you go.

The murderers shoe

Sussed this one out with Mr Stevens.
You know those solitary crap white trainers(size 13,right foot)you often see in the gutter?
they are the missing shoes of murderers.

Friday, 18 September 2009


I find drunk people really interesting.
The way they invade your personal space.
Basically it get me hard.
And oh the way they spit at you when talking and it always lands in the corner of your mouth.
give me more.
Please,please drunk fuck,repeat yourself just one more time
and if you're a girl,walk as slowly down the street
making yourself oh so obvious to all the wankers just so ready to throw punches at your ever so grateful chaperone.
i've just come.

Sunday, 13 September 2009

The one the world wasn't meant to see.

She promised me the best fuck ever.
That pain in the ass that showed at all our shows.
She lied about her age.
I took it anyway.
She was 17.
I came in her mouth like none had come before
after fucking her livid purple cunt the like not of a lady so young.
And she was quiet after,
responding not to any pleasuring techniques i would administer.
Avoiding kisses from that spunk filled gullet,
the terrifying soul filled my mortified ears with stories of rape,
4 times this year by bad uncles and unions gone wrong.
The nieve teen,desperate for love at any price.
Placating her sob story,Keen not to be penned the 5th rapist,
I kissed that rotten spunky mouth all night and fucked her again in the morning.

Sunday, 16 August 2009

mmmmmm in the midlands i'll ponder

Hello my friends.
Are we all well?
I sit alone in a punk office in the Midlands.
I feel frustrated.
Played with Leftover crack last night.
My wonderful voice,the song bird in my throat fucking left me again????
I could of cried.
i could of fuckin wept into the faces of the punk girls with their pretty hair.
And i am a tad worried.
Coz it is happening too often.
I've tried warming up
I've tried warm drinks
What the fuck is happening?
I've been playing since the fucking early 90's man????
Why has my voice decided to be a cunt???
Why am i writing this shit???
Yes,i guess i need to go to a doctor/throat person/singing teacher.
But i thought maybe like magically by writing this,it would make my problems go away.
Coz i, like an alive Paverotti(..whatever his name was)have to perform again in a few hours.
To Mansfields finest son.
the birthday boy
and Debs
the birthday princess.
I can't wait to eat all that part food.
Mmmmmm,did i spy a chilli,slow cooking in the kitchen.
I'm in for a treat thatis for sure.
Let's all raise our glasses to the weekend.
I unlike Leftover Crack,don't have a message for the punks.
I won't be telling you to "fuck the police"
Unless it is quite literally to stick it to a hot one.
Save your energies for the positive.
Maybe you have an elderly neighbour that don't get many visitors.
Maybe you could bake her a cake?
"Fuck the po lice"
"bake her a cake"

That's a message i could get behind.

Well done.
And you know what?

Friday, 7 August 2009

In and out

In and out within the hour.
Midnight booty calls to posh hotels.
Black taxi..s and ivory ball gowns.
Room 134 and i was fuckin your ass while the dancers danced downstairs.
I didn..t come,
neither did you.
your screaming made me uncomfortable.
That silk hitched up,
your tits strapped in tight.
Bed sheets stained for friends to see.
Your trophy fuck,
gigalo on call.
I refused the return cab fare.
Enjoyed feeling the whore
as the penguin noticed your red slapped face.
The Indian man drove me home.
"Do you mind if we drive fast?", he asked.
"No,just don't kill us both.I was once in a dreadful accident.

Wednesday, 5 August 2009


I`m really angry today.

Ages ago,back in the mists of time and everything,some pigs and other authority figures go and nail up an innocent tradesman.

Chippy he was.

To make matters worse,geezer was the son of god.Now if i had been there,i`d ave stormed the gaff witha load of punk rock jew mates,got him down and bricked the citidel or whatever building they were oppressing the people from.

Thats the spirit Jesus,have a sip of me tea.We`ll have you back on ya feet in no time.

But what does he do?

Only goes and Steams up to heaven taking our sins with him.

Cause,me.Well i fall to my knees."Take me with ya Lord.I wanna play in the garden like in the Last Battle by C.S Lewis".

"No my son"he says"You gotta stay down on earth and gather the punks,prepare for war.It`s time to loose individuality for good".

There you go then.

The Lord has spoked.

Wednesday, 29 July 2009


Nan is old.
Pisses with the door open.
Scowls at my friends.
Laughs when her grandson gives her a hug.
Spills milk on the floor.


Rain is grey
like my old mans hair
if he had any,
coz the cunt is bald.


Horses from my window.
Horses in their winter clothes.
It's really grey in the fields today,
i'm glad i'm not a pony.

Tuesday, 28 July 2009

I am an artist

I shouldn't be made to work like normal people.
I am writing a book.
Tell them to go away.
I don't like it anymore.

Man O War

A hundred feet away, the perfectly manicured lawn of the football pitch lies empty like the thousand of similar pitches across Britain. Worse than London’s bus lanes, the playground of thugs unused 99% of the time.
A hundred feet away in a shitty unkempt scrap of woodland the trails are growing.
20 years before in Thatcher’s Britain, I built a skateboard ramp in these woods. We shared this dumping ground with glue sniffers and skinheads. Skateboard facilities were non existent. We were treated as criminals, we were the outcasts. The ramp in the woods lasted a spring and a summer before ironically, being torn to pieces by bored Roman Catholic school children for want of better things to do. Let’s hope the Man O War trails last longer.
Concealed in dense undergrowth, they kinda spring up on you. Invisible from 30 feet, my first reaction upon finding them was ‘What the fuck?’. The sheer magnitude and effort these guys have gone to dwarfs the achievements of 20 years past.
I thought I was alone; such is the camouflaged way of the trails. Not so, my stumbling bewildered presence was quickly noted by the trail men. Topless and dirty, shovels and picks in hand, beautiful. My photographer roommate would wet herself. All these sun dappled savages for her to shoot.
And it would seem that history repeats itself. The parties, the barbeques, the friends living life their own way. Positive energies doing something off their own backs. Creating and nurturing, crafting a perfect scene, a perfect growing landscape.
I give the trails 6 months before the dozers move in, and every one of those 20 or so 10 ton, hand built dirt jumps will be leveled, and the woods will lay silent and neglected again. The dumping ground for fly tippers, whilst the tax payer pays for the upkeep of those barely used football pitches mere feet away.

Sunday, 28 June 2009

I'm wearing tighty whities.


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