Thursday, 28 May 2020


Virtual Pain.

It's true that life is easier with our technology,
But here's a glimpse inside my world, how things can often be.
Sometimes I fucking hate my phone, I want to cave it in,
I'd use a hammer, smash and smash, then toss it in the bin.
Although I'd soon regret my actions, that would make it worse,
I'd wish I had a time machine and set it to reverse.
Computers are the ultimate in torturous technique,
I'd love to throw mine at the wall from once to twice a week.
,But then I'd sit there breathing deep surrounded by the bits,
Just wishing that I wasn't prone to violent techno fits.
And now we need a password. One for every bloody site,
You may well even get locked out if characters aren't right.
It used to be, a single word would get you out the dark,
But now we need an upper case and exclamation mark.
It's fair to say that generally, my TV's good as gold,
But then they launch technology that makes my TV old.
Occasionally by accident I'll sit on my remote,
Then spend the day deciphering what tiny swirls denote.
Each button has a purpose but you never use a few,
So how am I supposed to know what fucking buttons do.
Mechanic brains are spreading like a virus in our lives,
The pubs will have I-rinals and we'll sleep with robot wives.
The things they make can do our jobs, and do them twice as well,
There's only one direction and it's down to cyber hell.

Monday, 18 May 2020


A recipe for disaster.

If you think that it's easy to write then you're wrong,
Why don't you have a go? Why don't you make a song?
You will first need some chords. Are there many you know?
Three or four would suffice, then you're ready to go.
It is probably best that you ponder a bit,
How to join it all up so your song isn't shit.
You will also need lyrics, and rhymes for the words,
I can fly I'm so high in the sky with the birds.
If you have any class you'll avoid lines like that,
It's been done, it's a cliché, you'll sound like a twat.
All your words should have meaning and mean what they say,
And don't crucify sense putting words the wrong way.
You will need several verses, they can't be the same,
And a chorus that's catchy including the name,
Of your song, but that isn't a rule carved in stone,
And remember the song must be one of your own.
If it sounds just a little like something I know,
I shall burnish my smugness by laying it low.
Now it's time to record. Do you know how that's done?
We'll need mic's and some leads and some software to run.
We'll use buses and plug-in's, auxiliary tracks,
We'll use XLr midi and quarter inch jacks.
I would layer guitars so the sound becomes big,
I will edit and tweak I will nudge and rejig.
Pan the keys to the left and the bass to the right,
Making tiny adjustments, stay up through the night.
When the process has taken up hours and days,
After countless remixing in various ways.
We can master and bounce so the parts become one,
It's the end of the journey, it's finally done.
As my finger is poised to come down on the mouse,
There's a crash as a meteor lands on my house.

Saturday, 9 May 2020


Do Monsters Watch?

Do monsters watch the human race?
If so, de we both look the same?
Could there be life in outer space?

Could they have bum cheeks on their face?
And would each have a crazy name?
Do monsters watch the human race?

Would they befriend or just replace?
Imprison us until we're tame?
Could there be life in outer space?

They might turn up and trash the place,
With laser beams that melt and maim.
Do monsters watch the human race?

I think we're searching just in case,
This vast and universal game.
Could there be life in outer space?

I hope they're raised with social grace,
And we are glad the spaceships came.
Do monsters watch the human race?
Could there be life in outer space?

Wednesday, 6 May 2020



Saucy Books.

I've come now to appreciate,
Erotic bits of books.
The cunning writer reels you in,
With rows of randy hooks.
Strategic lines, suggestive words,
With hints of things to come.
A flash of tanned and shapely legs,
A perfect rounded bum.
The tension builds in paragraphs,
The expectation's such,
I can't stop reading 'til I reach,
That long forbidden touch.
It's sometimes wrong, and sometimes right,
It's fiction either way.
The reason I read saucy books?
I think I might be gay.

Sunday, 3 May 2020


I put some washing on but all I see,
Are those distinctive pants that call to me.
At cycles end I hang the clean clothes out,
But once again, those pants are all I see.

Whilst wrestling with the dryer all I see,
Are those same pants so clean and dry for me,
I summon other things to think about,
But floating pants is all my mind can see.

I put the clothes away so I can't see,
Those pants that have debilitated me,
I close the drawer whilst clawed by nagging doubt,
But all goes black, I'm blind, I cannot see.

I may have dreamt, I wake but still can't see,
But then there's light and I look down at me,
I get picked up and legs are slid inside,
And now those pants are all that I can be.

An understanding forms and now I see,
There's bum cheeks and a knob inside of me,
My hands reach down and I am opened wide,
The access to the pants that I must be.

The real me will never ever see,
That hypnotising pants have taken me.
The jeans are pulled up trapping me inside,
A daunting glimpse of what my life must be.

It's late, but trousers down at last I see,
It's bed time and the washing bin for me.
I'm still alive but part of me has died,
My life is pants but that's all I can be.