Another Victory

And if you want to get with that new shit, get yourself over to anothervictory.blogspot.com. Shit is banging.

SMASHED

The clay dragons have been smashed never to be reformed.

The Golden Age

Fresh for 88, YOU SUCKERS
And I wore logo emblazoned tracksuit bottoms
An Africa medallion bounced with ruckus
While headphones leaked beats hot from
Brooklyn bodegas to a newsagent in the shire
Where racks restrained the only black faces
In a jazzy magazine with no prior
Distribution in such places

Life ain’t nothing but bitches and money
And Treat her like a Prostitute
Were straight lines that cold done me
In. Pop-pop-dem-a-shoot
Silver shields wrapped aired hi-tops
A graffitied jumper cost mum fifty-five pounds
Cracking my neck to kill a cop
Safe rebellion sounds

Just like this. My sister grounded
She doesn’t give a bugger about
Us and left the top off the Head
And Shoulders. I stayed out
Of it, on the bed, music scratching loud
Studying Big Daddy Kane’s spray-on flat-top
And fat gold chains while downstairs were rows
Something about to drop

It’s…A Teenage Love
The movement set me apart
From the weevily push and shove
Of boys thirsty to leave their mark
As undisputed kings of the village
White Nigger, they shouted
Perched, smoking on the edge
Of the bars from which they led
One another on
Think you’re a fucking black man
Stupid rap songs
I ran from the brook to the dam
The other side of the tracks from me
Buzzing, The Hunted Child
My very own ghetto fantasy
Not just a style

The First Time

Could do with some proper coke
Right now, you know what I mean?
And she flashed her jaundiced grate
Like that pov on the school bus.
And I gestured to her Brillo crotch.
In there, I want to do. I have to.
No extra twenty for the other.
No, smiling an apology, shaking.

Still I don’t remember crying,
Her hold, her stroking words,
Or the parlour room décor.
Not even the child’s eye
That watched as I broke
Down into a man.

Fuck all

Of course I've done fuck all on the novel. What novel? Does it even exist? Only in my cunting mind, I suppose.

Instead I find myself addicted to Masterchef and organising my life around it like a middle aged loss. What a complete bender.

Well, that's enough self-flagellation for one day. Although, I'm up for you, dear one reader, to peep me on my blog, slip into your dominatrix avatar and cyber-attach pegs to my knackers and beat my ass with a bluderbuss rammed with anal beads. Go on, I dare you.

Please.

It's an update

I bought a new notebook the other day. It has a cartoon Oscar Wilde on the front. I think that it's bound to inspire me to further my creative endeavours. So, watch this space.

So far it's not had the desired effect.

The most creatively inspiring moment of the week came while watching a programme about 'extreme foods' on Sky Three. Check this footage of a man eating 'Baloot', a Filipino delicacy which consists of a hard boiled egg with a chick in it. It was fucking disgusting.

YUM YUM

I'm thinking of serving these up at my first book launch in 2019, to be held in the John Hampden Hall in my home village. And yes, the brass band will be playing.

Nothing new

Been scratching my sack recently,
really has been itchy.
Wrapped it up in fluffy cotton wool last night
and dabbed on some TCP.
Feels a lot better today.
But it did strip off a few pubes,
leaving me with blondies.
Once my man hair grows back I'll be all over this,
like fat man with big hands picking
flowers.
Until then, dear reader, forgive me.
I'm back to my lame old self.