For when I stepped back,
into the chasm,
blackness gurgled deep,
thoughts, deeds and beings
within my very
'Not I,' cried the pain
of sweet memory,
'Never, I've never
heard of this mistress
with her sad, sweet song
of a listless love;
her short, silent shriek
with the cock at dawn;
her deep, violent thrusts
on the tempest's lawn.
If I've ever spoke
and mentioned her name,
pall'd over in lies
and ransomless shame
your shameless ears were;
If I've ever smiled
at thought of her face
or I've proudly laughed
at her silent jokes,
then I'll quote the girl
by her flowered bed
that, 'I was the more
And when I stepped back
out of the chasm
lightness swiftly bled,
and slowly it dripped
a deep, dark chasm
upon my very
I never thought that it would be this bleak
The days endlessly tripping on the next
The hours and the minutes being pushed
Infinately towards, what, a blackness?
I remember a solitary oak tree,
In a field surrounded by the traffic.
I'd climb that trunk of hope, which for me held
All that was good and eternal on earth.
At the top I could see other trunks, sparse
As they were, amid a copse of clay tiles.
Their glimmer in the morning sun, almost
Reminded me yellow linseed fields.
Yet their almost-beauty masked their darkness.
For beneath their shelter were bleak beings,
Far, far greyer in their collective hue
Than their dead parents and unborn offspring.
And beyond the horizon, this bleakness,
This infinite bleakness had multiplied
With its billions of infinite grey specks.
And without a tree branch to hold onto
I reeled to the ground with a bleak disgust,
My body sank deep in the muddy field
And my legs smashed onto the concrete path.
In agony I cursed the bleak beings
And doing so I cursed myself, I cursed...
I cursed the almost-greyest one of all.
So here I lie twenty-two, broken legs
And still I curse the bleak waves beneath which
It never was depression,
You miserable git.
It was the light procession
That begged you to slit;
It was the darkness of pits,
The pale aggressions,
The squalid tower full with shits
Of dole confessions.
It was the death obsession
That caused you to knit
A quilt of black depression.
So can you permit
A world where everything fits
Where true expressions
Extols a joy in true wits
And stops regressions.
So I will ask a question
In hope you'll submit,
Is it a self oppression
That caused you to quit?
I don't care that you were beaten,
I don't care that you're alive,
I don't care if you're infertile
I just want your love to drive far away.
I don't care if it's forever,
I don't care if it's today,
I don't care that it's december
I just want your crap away from my life.
I don't care that I am dying,
I don't care that I'm a cunt,
I don't care if I'm forsaken
I just want you out the front of my door.
I don't care if we are worthless,
I don't care if we are bled,
I don't care that we are falling
I just want us to be dead.
They say there's nothing for her,
But Butterscotch and Flora
And though her mind is tripping
Like a five year old girl,
Her husband still is dipping,
It makes me want to hurl.
Is he not a paedophile,
Abusing the cherub's trust?
Should he not just shout, "Sieg Heil"?
Let the neighbours do what must?
Can she consent, while thinking no?
And if she does,
Can she tell Fucker, where to go?
She's laying back and feeling bliss,
Or, so the fucker thinks.
'Cause up she looks and blinks;
A sign her mind has gone amiss.
But still the fucker bangs away
And Butterscotch can't speak.
I think he raped her twice today.
That's brought him to a peak,
Upon a silent mountain top
Where all the fuckers sleep,
With unrefusing kids to pop,
Too comatose to peep.
His defence, you see, boys and girls,
A premise sweet in charm:
The girl he loves once loved him too,
So where does he cause harm?
By bringing back the days goneby
Of love that they once had,
And giving her a mortal sigh,
So, how can he be bad?
But this I say to him, to you,
That girl whom he gropes inside,
Is like a battered worn out shoe -
A lot easier to guide.
A lot like an inward tide,
As it gushes close to you,
Thoughts and fears it cannot hide,
For it's helpless through and through.
Ebbing forward untill it runs aground.
And just like the forward flowing tide,
Poor butterscotch is dying on the ground;
Unable to resist Fuckers chide,
Because Fucker fucks her while she is bound.