IF CHRISTMAS COMES EARLIER EACH YEAR, then so can my “Tasteless Kitschmas” Song (see the 3 images below). Do you think it will get in the “Hit Parade”? 🤣 The melody is in a “Skiffle” style, a bit like “My Old Man’s a Dustman”. 🙂 You’ll never hear me sing it; but I mean every word of it. Christmas… an obscenity on the face of humanity — like a hairy wart on a beauty-queen’s nose. What does it have to do with Christ? Nothing at all. Enjoy the song though… Click on “Read the rest of this Entry” to read it all: Read the rest of this entry »
There has never been a true “cessation of hostilities”.
For those three NewSpeak words can only ever be
a gassy smokescreen made to mask the secret liability
of those for whom all peace is all ways merely just
the disingenuous space that comes between 2 wars.
In every dirty hushful place where vulture salesmen
gather to be pedlars of the means of our destruction, Read the rest of this entry »
TO ANY BUDDING BUREAUCRAT OR APPARATCHIK OF THE STATE who may imagine this is their concern (although it’s none of anybody’s business [and yet, in a way, it’s everybody’s too]): I AM A CITIZEN OF NOWHERE — inhabitant of déjà vu. For I am not part of this wasteland world. Where I come from, a thesaurus (that is, a treasure-chest) of gemstone words has swirled inside all heads from long before they were a twinkle in an angel’s eye. Where I come from, it is irrational to fear to die — unnatural to never cry with tears of blesséd joy. Where I come from, bureaucracy would never calcify the Read the rest of this entry »
From what I have observed of shame, it has a taste.
Metallic, subtle, sulphurously hiding underneath
one’s gritted teeth, it cloaks itself in sugar-coated
candyflossedish vain houdiniesque derangerous
escapological decay. For people run from shame as if
it was a guillotine or other similarly end-it-all device.
Read the rest of this entry »
Decades of weaving days drove by unnoticed
hobbling slidely through
the unkempt meadow of my brevity.
A fierce uncertain frailness flies in heavenly strands
towards the cracked unmended plate of joy
which earlier in my halcyon days had slipped
out of my tender clumsy hands
So now I reached the age of full consent.
My tongue at last can flutter on some clit —
her mouth a scabbard for my sword (her scent
will make me drunk with love, I must admit).
Until that day, the numbers don’t perform
to make that “three-six-oh” degree design.
But when it comes, there’ll be a thunderstorm
and on each other’s love-juice we will dine.
For cunnilingus is no common word.
Fellatio is equally obtuse.
Now, one year short of seven-oh, I’m stirred
to find some willing darling to seduce.
The time to make those body-parts align
is surely at the age of sixty-nine!
© Alan Morrison, 2018