Naughty or Nice?

Hohoho
We've entered into Father Christmas's month:
Gingerbread men, women, dogs,
Snowmen and elves

And full grown adults
Of both sex put on red hats
With a white bobble
In tribute
In imitation of a Coca Cola
Marketing campaign
Hohoho

Oblivious and playground informed kids
Write and scrawl wish lists
In their toy strewn rooms

Mothers desperate for more jewels
Jewellery or overpriced handbags
Ask husbands who hope for some
Xmas pussy
Hohoho

The day looms over each human head
And not because of the real reason

The papers and advertisements countdown
Like we don't know
Like we're not aware of how much time
We have to wrap and fill those stockings
Hanging above the fireplace

Like we don't know about Rudolph's red fucking shiny nose
Or the elf slaves in Santa's North pole sweatshop
Hohoho

And do not forget to spare a shit
For Mrs Claus
She has to cook and give head
To the white bearded delivery man
The rest of the year

I'll bet my bottom $
She puts a cross through her calendar
For the night he leaves on his sleigh.
Hohoho

Merry Christmas.

G.E.S

Fame Extingusiher

This is another one written on the spot. This is what I want to write. G.S


Before journalists or bloggers
Groupies of horror
The just and almost devoted

You must smoke in shadows
All and each effort nothing
But silhouette.

And what gets the man here?
To a point where his name
Sparks interest.

Banal things e.g

The divine perfumed neck
A woman's hand in December
Blank checks

There's more:

Three course lunches
Campari and Soda
Travelling hangovers

When you open up some magazine overrun
With advertisments and models
That don't play a part in this-

The real limbo

Then make a decision
Executive bruv

To not buy into that phoney handsome
Well to do polite "Only with dinner"
Fuckshit

'Cause being known pictured reported interviewed
Isn't about the money
The moolah
And loose change

It's about the work
The pieces that fit

So go on
Do what you gonna do

If you give a shit
Someone else will

With your fingers crossed
They might have two hands
And be interested

In what makes
The man.

30 Sad Years Ago

That fat dreg
The fan of Salinger

Got his record signed
Then hung around Dakota

To pump a bullet
Into the scouse God
The Liverpudlian King

Who made millions of fuckups
And screaming ladies

Put their ears closer
To the speakers

Chapman, you dumb yank cunt
Homicide's for bank robbers
Dealers and child abusers

When you slither into hell
From Attica, NY

Not one human
Will give a single shit.

Some Free Advice

Look into the crowd
Whether human animal
Or bored

Go easy on the drink boy
Don’t slouch

Don’t expect a tumultuous applause
Make ‘em laugh
Thank 'em
They are your audience
Use decent material
Not obscure fuckbits

Don’t spill wine
When you're three sheets

Pronounce
Keep the crack tales
To yourself

Entertainment
Is for them
Use your bedroom rehearsals
As the test

Now,

Bonne Chance.

Rosealba's Snatch

My drawn out bitter commute
Is all forgotten as soon as
We skip dinner and root
Under an Ikea duvet

You knickerless
Me without a suit shirt

My rabid mouth
At the sweet strap
Like a sewer rat

It almost frays
But impatient you
Rip, pull and hurl it away
Towards the dresser

You shed the last detail
In post dinner freedom

Sucking for salt whimpers
The sour echo simmers

It grows
And all the tadpole babies
Itching in my balls flow
To the Ovary Office in the sweet

Sometimes umami

Snatch of Rosealba's.

Do Not Disturb

We suffer emotional avalanches
And the adominable snow man
Kicks the door in just after 4.30 a.m

To see dirty peaks
In Catalonia
Chewed up faces

Dancing in spit shoes
In a Hotel stuffed
With almost breathless
Chambermaids

Ruffling sheets
Nodding pour tojours
et à jamais.

First day of Christmas

You slippery bastard
As if I wouldn't notice

You

Disappoint only yourself
When you disappear

And reappear
At the sight of a partridge
Cooking in a tree

Eat eat eat
Stuff enough
Tough the rough
Countdown