Chamberlain

Chamberlain

 

Conversation is an art form,

One of many I’ll never master,

Like memorising a symphony,

Or cooking the perfect meal.

 ~~~

Courtship is an amalgam,

The right amount I could never achieve,

But I stray away from monotony

When you add more than water to me.

 ~~~

Now I’m certainly not a bad seed,

Some might call me quite the catch,

But if we lived in a botany

You’d attract more visitors than me.

 ~~~

Because I’m a humble rose

That catches rays from usual suspects,

But you’re a precious orchid,

An exquisite rarity,

 ~~~

The type of beauty

That’s mystified and adorned

And can’t be found in buttonholes

Of ill-fitting suits on boys.

Life on the other side of the riot

Life on the other side of the riot,

I’m not talking about the ones involved,

I’m talking about the ones that stand quiet,

And watch on as their city discharges

From classy, to trashy, to ashy,

In one foul swoop.

At the time I probably would have picked up a shooter,

To vanquish that grey hooded delinquent looter,

It’s an obvious rhyme for an obvious crime,

But who wouldn’t want to call in the army,

To deliver a bare street to Mare Street

Instead of all we saw which was “bare thiefs”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life on the other side of the riot,

I’m talking about the ones involved,

I’m talking about the ones that decided to try it,

For a new TV or some basmati rice,

Everybody’s doing it, everybody’s dropped the price,

Five finger discounts, forget haggling discussions

Forget the legal repercussions,

But when you find yourself in front of the law,

You can forget about a discount on your sentence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life on the other side of the riot,

I’m not talking about the ones involved,

I’m talking about the ones making inquiries

Into the reasons why it happened.

The death of a black man,

The rebirth of a system,

Where one in five 16-25 year olds have no job to live on,

Over two million unemployed,

And an alcoholic culture, puncturing our liver.

We have a history of riot traditions,

Protest after protest,

And the Guns of Brixton still live on

In the souls of stolen trainers from JD.

Tags: basmati rice, guns of brixton, london riots, london riots 2011, looter

Parannoying

I can make you laugh,
I can make you smile,
I can make you lose faith,
and watch you run a mile.
I stay with her alone,
she’s become used to paranoia,
relaxed and paralysed,
my irrations will annoy her.
“I’m getting bored of this”,
my silly hissy fits,
I stay with her at home,
for pussy, whips and tits.
“How do you make me come so fast?”
For that I have no answer,
just a set of keys I use
to serenade her pasture.
Dust covers memories
with a shrill layer of resentment,
doors slam against her wall
and shatter from discontentment.
Brandy, Calvin, Sandy and Mandy,
Mary, Jane and Mark,
names that caress the tired souls
that lay beneath the dark.

Absolute power corrupts

It’s a girl!
God is living among us,
she wears a fur coat of course.
She smokes blunts
whilst lathering up,
I’m out on the hunt,
I’m gathering up
a feast fit for two
it’s meant for me and her
but she’ll eat by portion too.
Love for her lingers,
it’s a bad smell
on the tip of her ring finger.
She’s like three-day old milk,
a risk,
but the urge for cafe
au lait
paves way for her
to pour
sour emotions
over my beans.
She’s not a queen
but she wears a crown,
she’s not a religion
but I worship her anyway.
I’m tangled at the waist,
somewhere
between my thighs and dirty face,
she has absolute power
to corrupt and corrode,
luckily she does it with grace.

About a boy

The boy’s gonna be famous soon.
I might even fuck him later,
or maybe just a hand job for now.
He’ll be on the stage in the pub
around the corner from the club,
and I’m wearing my four inch heels
so I can take reels and reels of photos
without having to be on my tiptoes.
My skirt is short enough
and maybe I’ll allow the peering glance
of a future romance,
I’ll probably say yes
when the boy asks me to dance
in the club later on,
but at the moment I’m in the pub
and I’m started to get excited.
The boy darts across the stage
to pick up his guitar,
he looks across the crowd
as I adjust my push-up bra.
The mob goes silent,
as the band starts to play,
but it doesn’t sound good at all,
maybe he’s having an off day.
One guy start to get violent
and throws a bottle of beer,
it hits a punter at full throttle,
and messes up everyone’s hair.
Someone shouts “you’re shit”
and it appeared to hit a nerve
because the boy walked off stage
out of sheer embarrassment.
The guy who hit the nerve
comes over to me
and out of fear of harassment,
I let him glance at my legs
for longer than I’d normally allow.
He tells me he is going to the club
around the corner from the pub
and if by chance
I see him in that club,
I’m gonna dance with him.

“Hello you”

The farce of a narcissist,

Existing inside weak hearts,

Exiting existence in sharp,

Swift darts of phallic philosophy,

On a whim,

Filling shopping carts to the brim,

With bones and short circuits in skirts

Vibrating to the sound of polyphonic madness,

As ringing turns heads from afar,

As eyes dart

From your head to mine

In a psychotic bliss

Only achieved from hearing the words

“Hello you”

Down the phone.

My lament

Crept in through the backdoor,

it travelled late at night,

swept in to the chambers,

sure enough to lead the fight,

impossible to prepare for,

a delight bestowed by thee,

but its wrath would soon follow,

to swallow my victory.

These words may sound like babble,

decrepit for the ears to touch,

a poisonous dart from Cupid

was the medicine as such.

It paralyses the senses,

yet blissful in its own way,

remorseful in its afterlife,

a taste that’s here to stay