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Archives of Pain

I wonder who you think you are
You damn well think you're God or something
God give life, God taketh it away, not you
I think you are the devil itself

Quote by: Mother of victim of Peter Sutcliffe

Thursday 4 July 2013

Heard It All Before

Stop me if you think you've heard this one before,
Got a girlfriend in a coma and heaven knows I'm miserable now,
They say say hers is a light that will never go out,
But I'm meeting her at the cemetry gates.

Last night I dreamt that somebody loved me,
But I never had no one ever.

What difference does it make if big mouth has struck again?
I never cheated on Shakespeare's sister.

Don't panic.
The boy only had a thorn in his side.
William, It was really nothing.

Ask if we can reel around the fountain with this charming man.

Sheila tried to take a bow.
But she started something she couldn't finish.
But some girls are bigger than others.

There's a vicar in a tutu.
But that joke isn't funny anymore.
I know it's over...

Sunday 2 October 2011

Pebble Beach

I'd love to cast away these cynical eyes, To allow them to drift away on high tides. To demolish then reconstruct these sacred shrines, To worship then deny these false idols. To set sail for brighter Brighton times, To free ourselves from our shipwrecked lives. Never to moor upon strangers' minds, Never to drown in these crashing tides.

Thursday 6 January 2011

The Doe In The Cornfield

The doe in the cornfield is pure against the darker skies,
The snow covers the fields in a blanket of gorgeous innocence,
The mist hangs over as a shadow of symmetry,

The doe in the cornfield is as powerful as the dawn, as weak as the night and as inspiring as the morn.
The doe is as shocking as a nightmare and tender as a dream

For the scene is forever silent, constantly uncorrupted,
The doe in the cornfield is the mother of life,
The beauty is everlasting in this eternal winter.

Monday 29 November 2010

Godiva's Town

Where the fuck are you?!
Where the fucking hell are you?!
I'm standing here in the freezing cold,
chaining my lungs out ans stomping my feet.

Where the fuck are you?!
Where the fucking?! Fuck are you?!
I've been waiting twenty minutes and I've thrown away the receipt.

For fucks sake!
Where the fuck are you?!
Where the fucking hell are you?!
I've been stood up in the arctic blizzard
Abandoned in Godiva's town.

Sunday 21 November 2010

Getting On

Saw your number stuck in a telephone box
Called you up as the card said you love sucking cocks
Mature and experienced was wat I was looking for
Not sags and bags and a buss pass

5 for a cuddle
10 for a handjob
20 for a bj
and 50 for all the way

Whips and chains and varicose veins
and unsavoury trouser stains
Whips and chains and varicose veins
and unsavoury trouser stains
a glass eye and dentures and severe back pains
Whips and chains and varicose veins
and unsavoury trouser stains
a glass eye and dentures and severe back pains
and a small pension and a flacid phallus
These whips, chains and varicose veins

Thursday 15 April 2010

AUODFCKEG

You can't say fuck on Countdown.
There'd be public outrage,
Old biddy's erratically scribbling angry letters due to the picture that couldn't be erased.

You can't say fuck on Countdown.
Society would collapse,
There'd be riots on the streets and the knights would be called to arms.

You can't say fuck on Countdown.
Curse words would lose all meaning,
To say fuck cunt cunt or nigger,
Would be attributed as idle twitter.

You can't say fuck on Countdown,
Its' all down to that bastard Brown's broken Britain.

To say fuck on Countdown is to fuck God.

Wednesday 24 February 2010

Writer's Block

The writer has hit a dead end,
His brain is numb,
His hands are bound,
His spirit is broken,
His mind is blank,
His inspiration has run dry,
His gift is fried.

The writer has lost his muse
Without her he's redudant,
He's a silent observer
He's a social commentator with a blind eye,
He's an attentive listener with deaf ears,
A hopeless loner with dead peers.

Unable to write the poet contemplates sucide.
To be treasured when he was living,
To be idolised in the afterlife.

But the writer cannot decide,
To figure out what to to write,
On his tombstone.
Ergo writer's block means illogical sucide.

Here lies Steerpike....