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

Monday, 23 November 2009

A Typical Saturday Night For Jimmy Jenkins

Pour me a pint of you're finest amber, mass-produced piss poison.
A large glass of red and a vintage whiskey
Four long shots, kick de bucket

This establishment is littered with hard livers, with hard livers.
Here even the poets, musicians, authors, and romantics are shrunken to drunken louts.

The dimwit enters with a shark on a lead,
The master is canine. Loyal as fuck, thick as shit
The whore on his arm is over 6ft tall.
Due to the six inch heels that'd crush your balls.

Out in the car park Jimmy J is surrounded by a carnival of wolves.
All wanting to dance and howl in the pale moonlight.
He raises his fists and tries to scare the animals off.
But, these beasts are riot starters, twisted riot starters.
Slapped by a Grizzly! Sacked by a Weasel!

As JJ arrives home battered black and blue,
He takes out a magic marker and goes dot-to-dot from cigarette burn, to cigarette burn.
He falls into a deep slumber.

All in the spirit of a typical Saturday night for Jimmy Jenkins

2 Bottles of Red and a Leather Couch (Feat K. Norman)

Sipping Red and sitting on leather,
Carnal thoughts that can't be tethered.
All I need is a piano,
Behind these keys is a lust that will always be desired.

Through deserts and woods hope will be acquired,
Though in this moment passion can not be denied.

But, wading through the thick fog passion did lie

The Plight of the Jobseeker

Stuck in a queue anticipating judgement.
Waiting in the cold for a tuppence payout.
Dreams were doomed in such a short time.
The loaf is thinly sliced on this non-breadline.

The plight of the jobseeker

Orchard, England

As I look over this sacred orchard,
Skylarks sing and fruits ripen.

Over majestic greenery apples are uncorrupted,
As there is great peace and enlightenment in solitude.

There is no serpent to poison the sweet fruits of my labour.
For this is Eden, this is England

8 Gig Plastic Prison

Trapped in a pocket-sized plastic prison
Suroounded by martyrs of musics past

Strummer passes the joint to Morrison, who smokes it til the last.
The man in the mirror, psychotic, looks at his reflection in the glass

A floppy haired Gabriel remarks "There'd be more space in one of these empty shotgun shells"!
As Jimi hits an earth shattering chord his throat swells.

Buckley drowns in a shallow river bed
Within this black cell cell all heroes are dead.

Because incarcerated in the 8GB plastic prison all are deceased.

Legends are no more, mono audio also.
In the kingdom of vinyls stereo and miniscule Mp3's are King.