A connoisseur of rotund clunge he longs to lunge forth fornicating
on the floor to commercial grunge raw as it gets the Little Man never out of
luck never at a loss for words brags about his fucks chucks the same sagging
synonyms and pseudonyms around in the school in his stool legs dangling down
like he’s a varnished ventriloquist dummy listing names and moves like he’s
fooling us all into thinking he’s cool or something and he really expects us to believe all this
bravado about his ‘skilfully’ staccato (as if that’s a thing) fucking rhythm
when he ploughs the bigger of the female organisms around Arnos Grove and the
suburbs below and beyond while also playing the profound guitar strumming slum
dog millionaire the air to Dylan’s worn wooden chair writing cliché words about
his eternal sense of despair or his undying love for his current swan like
lover that looks more like uncooked foie gras when beached on the back seat of
his brand new car.
He lives in a nice neighbourhood he’s never understood what
it’s like to hear shards of serrated lives come through paper thin walls like
knives he’s never had to see someone was stabbed he’s never had to work his
hands to calluses grinding steel in the sweltering heat of a factory iron mill
floors sticking to his feet through a bubbling black sole holes forming tearing
the boots apart like bubble gum while the machinists hum and the machines
squeal beneath a teal sky blocked out by the rusty rafters painted matte black
cracking above their leaking heads their joints weakening eeking through the
hours wondering why they’re still going knowing that life won’t be any better
tomorrow suffocating in industrial sorrow but still they persist for no reason
season after season thoughts of freedom and treason long gone among the sooty
faces travelling in droves at sunset back to dismal places back to Pivot ghettos
passing the motorway on foot like ants the chorus of desperate stilettos of
Loreto’s girls marching with their he-she pimp in a tattered row already wasted
their lives echoing over the Cats thumping against the concrete pumping up
scorching heat.
So many tired feet tread the street day in day out day in
day out and no matter how much the Little Man claims to be among them over
tired acoustic notes in that same tired style that’s so infantile it makes me
hurl the point is he hasn’t and he won’t and I don’t think I can fucking take
these uninspired songs unfurling into my ears and more.
‘And now another number for my one and only girl. The pearl
of my eye’
More like another cherry for that bag you’re dragging the
one that you keep bragging about having to have to carry your fan mail around
in because they ‘liked my cocktail – lol do you get it man? Cock tail’ man this guy’s so cringe he
drives my fucking skin pale with shame and just to think all the talk and the
metaphorical bag that he stuffs with papers every now and then when he thinks
his tall tales are starting to taper is just to convince us he’s not a fucking
fag.
‘this guy I know is straight but thinks about guys
sometimes -what do you think that
means?’
My fucking god just drop the vage and get a cock maybe then
this fucking bull shit will stop once some Mandingo or Fernando pops your cherry I’m sure you’ll be very merry
maybe then you’ll actually smile and stop trying to fuck those vile girls that
you toss around pretending when they’re moaning if they’re moaning that it’s
actually some Lothario groaning maybe once you get a guy you’ll lay off the
fucking hash and stop wearing that Byronic sash you’ve donned that never suited
maybe you’ll root around a bit inside yourself and bring out something actually
worth something anything’s better than nothing but nothing’s better than the
little shit you are now. A cover track a week to pretend your relationship’s
all squeaky clean Disney songs and covers cliché ballads for loathsome lovers
original material about an ethereal being with a Cherub’s looks duets with
Yvette or Ivon whatever her name is it doesn’t matter because she’ll be gone
soon like the others once you’ve stained her covers too soon cocooned desires
hidden behind a born liar’s smoke fires in the mire of your psyche like
memories of your acne and your love/hate relationship with Jackie or Johnny or
John or whatever he’s calling himself these days. It’s only a matter of time
before your lies fray away completely and I wait for the day when I see you
collapse meekly exposed for what you are. You don’t like girls you don’t like
the Bell Jar you didn’t get that car second hand you don’t live in a council
estate you own fucking land in the Lake District it’ll be great when people see
you for the first time.
It’ll be like giving birth, and you’ll feel every minute of
it and when it’s over you’ll be forced to sit and stare on the ground that self-made
stare mangled your leg like a hound of its leash and you’ll be able to hear the
ruins of your life screeching like the machine works in what resembles a rusted
preach that finally reaches you and drags you down into the mounds of what you
always said you were, realities stirring around your ears brings you to tears
all your hopes laid to waste by the fears you always had of what could have been.
Well now it is, and you can see it all beyond your
smouldering rizla, packed too tight, its light going out at last.
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