Stream of Consciousness Saturation Poetry Experiment.

Statement of Intent:

I shall attempt to achieve something pointless.

Rules:

I shall proceed to write a poem for as long as I can go without pausing for over a minute. If I pause for over a minute I stop.  This does not include time out for taking a piss, getting more coffee, or dropping a burning cigar in my crotch.

Basic Depressing Facts:

The subject will be fluid.  It may be unsuitable for the fucking youngsters, old people, and people with souls.  

Coherency is not a pre-requisite.

This is not the “good” kind of poem… No, this is the rhyming kind practiced by three year olds and suicidal Goths.

I will not spell-check. It’s pointless anyway. I can’t seem to get Word to use anything other than the American dictionary. Thus most of the words will be auto-corrected to be spelt in the manner of a retarded illiterate. I hope all you Z fans are excited… but bad news for the U lovers.

This is not going to go well.

3… 2… sigh…

Life is like a watermelon,
Riding around with a convicted felon,
Staring out of cars.
At cracktoothed stars.

The little circles go around,
And we don’t make a sound,
Save for the quiet guttural grunts,
Produced by all you stupid cunts.

Profanity is a tidy tool,
To rid oneself of the smell of school,
Look at me I used bad words,
Watch me rise above the turds.

Tiny little dots of prolapsed light,
Ectoplasmic swells great delight,
It’s a casual little waltz,
Though not without its faults.

Dyspeptic flashing myopic songs,
Flaccid wretched I’ve done wrongs,
Disconnect the shades of grey,
Let’s kill the gray old man’s toupe.  

Psychotropic saccharine smiles,
Snapped the knobs from all my dials,
Whistle away in quaint disbelief,
To pussy fart’s called “to queef”.

So I get angry at a stranger’s car,
My greatest disappointment yet so far,
You can shake your fist in feeble rage,
But I’m fairly sure I’ve skipped your page.

If you apply a simple equation,
You’ll require no persuasion,
That taking your childhood dolls to war,
Was not what they were intended for.

Shiny plastic blank faced Ken,
Secretly longs for unknown men,
While Barbie sits alone and cries,
Both live lives so full of lies.

Look at this from a certain angle,
A purple hyper-stylised eye tangle,
Try to peer through that small hole,
Ain’t it enough to try one’s soul?

It goes on and grows more dense,
The narrative structure less intense,
I continue to go faster hence,
Don’t come to me for fucking sense.

Bubbling, twinkling, twisting,
Violent triple-x ass-fisting,
Oh have we reached the last frontier?
What else can we shove in that rear?

Some days I like a blonde to lick,
Some days I prefer a brunette to flick,
Wednesdays Auburn is my kick,
On Sundays bald girls reject my dick.

Back to saturation point once again,
Oh that I had the scope of greater men,
Cheap knob gags seem to come to hand,
That line too could be ‘bout throbbing gland.

Is there a higher aim in life?
Should I rhyme wartorn strife?
Perhaps talk about clouds and trees?
Or more of birds but less of bees?

Fine, I’ll try the youth appeal,
Let’s hear them yelp an’ squeal,
I’ll try some gangsta line,
Bustin’ out like scented pine.

So I strolled about wit my bitches,
Dressed in furs, awash with riches,
Then I saw some other cat,
Motherfucker had a badass hat.

I shot him dead, I did it quick,
Used the extension of my dick,
Motherfucker hit the dirt,
Wit his lady I did flirt.

Took her home for scones and jam,
Traditional way to shuck the clam,
Yet she turned to me and told me “No”,
“Wat up bitch? Be it Aunt Flo?”

“You shut your mouth you pasty gimp,
You live in a bedsit, you ain’t pimp”
She laughed at me and told me to beat it,
So I cut off my head and made her eat it.

Oh to borderline slander another’s culture,
Yet it’s become ours for we are a vulture,
Thus it’s all frankly quite legit,
I just come off as a tit.

Still, look on the bright side,
Former footballer Norman Whiteside,
Every cloud has a silver trim,
Just like every arsehole has a rim.

We can be negative and so down,
Or dance and sing without a frown.
Although, if you choose the latter,
You’re a gimpy annoying twatter.

Angry horny meths-drunk tramp,
Having sex with discarded lamp,
Alleway luvin’ in discreet streetlight,
Counting down to psycho fight.

See him swing his crusty wrist,
Watch him fall, watch him twist,
Rolling on the ground spitting teeth,
Five more seconds until he comes to grief.

Blue, red ambulance flash,
A rain of loose change cash,
Alleway siren echoes,
Tramp broke his own nose.

Should this be a telling example,
Of mankind’s urge to sample,
The very worst of one’s own soul,
Good, if tramp death is your goal.

Electroscopicdistillation,
Monosepticrapturation,
Dispatchretrosixtieskitch,
Drainomoonglowismybitch.

Are you bored yet?
I am, my pet.
But is that fair?
Why should I care?

Maybe if I edit,
Will we geddit?
Trimp the fluff
Far more than enough.

Watch a robin from my door,
Kill the time until half-four,
Random people cross the street,
Eyes are locked upon their feet.

Lack of ambition, lack of hope?
I know how you learn to cope…
Just come on my glorious course,
You’ll soon be healthy as a horse.

Just stand right there my downer chum,
No need to look fearful, sad or glum.
I’ve got lesson on for you right here…
Hold this shotgun against your ear.

Next step of natural selection,
Have to fight the Viagra Erection.
Lemming instinct with fun result,
Come and join my happy cult.

We have cordial by the gallon,
Get your hair cut in my salon.
I will treat you well my friend,
Right up until the briefest end.

Come ride our happy ponies,
You suit-wearing advert phonies,
Just ignore that whistling sound,
That’s just the bomb on way to ground.

If you want to leave the show,
There’s just one thing to know,
It’s out that door and up the stairs,
Into the magical land of no cares.

I know it looks just like an abyss,
Something you’d normally give a miss,
But that’s just a paint-effect,
Ignore that, I’m quite erect.

Come on, you know you want to,
It’s what David Beckham would do,
The greatest ride on all the earth,
Hold on tight for all your worth.

You may feel a bump just before the end,
As you come round the final bend.
That’s just the wall with lots of spikes,
Distract yourself with this pair of Nikes.

Look I know this sounds a bit unfair…
After all, you use “product” in your hair.
It should be like that lager ad,
Girlies galore, nothing sad.

Believe me my charming pal,
You will get that TV gal.
Just sign upon the dotted line,
Do you like this box? It’s real pine…

Delusional single-dimensional, happy folk,
With spam hands monkey’s choke,
But, I’m kidding, please be my friend,
You’ve got more cash in the end.

Goddamit let me sell out…
How loud I gotta shout?
I want your shiny car…
I want your barmitzvah

Oh wait… Do I piss and moan?
Is it because of my ancient phone?
Do I want your fancy toys?
Pinocchio liked real boys.

Explain to me the happy day
Where you played Joseph in that play
When I ended up a fucking sheep,
A part I played in my sleep…

Jealousy might not be graceful,
But your luck is quite disgraceful.
However if I work real hard,
I can steal your AmEx card.

Spectrospasmicexpectation,
Aginggenitalsfeeldeflation,
Iwasyoungonceforlornsigh,
Stillgetlaidmightbealie.

Token line with a monkey,
Fulfill the quota spunky,
Monkey wants a peanut,
In a mirror shaving cut.

Toilet paper squares on face,
Each a worry another time, another place
Real concern right now,
In arse lodged toy cow.

Go to the doctor and admit the shame?
Household accidents claim to blame?
Or just let it work up inside,
Grit my teeth, enjoy the ride?

Too many stories of that ilk,
Dignity rare as whores in silk,
Polyester playmates all the way,
Poor man can’t afford a decent lay.

Let’s all dance in a row,
Our smiles wide, face aglow,
Cowboy hats upon our heads,
Sleeping alone in single beds.

Let’s get old and fade away,
Let’s hear our hip click sway,
Feed ducks in the park,
Shiver at home in the dark.

Eskimos had the right idea,
We just don’t have iceflows here,
Let’s do the next best thing,
To Shopping trollies tie with string.

Push them away down the hill,
Give them a final tiny thrill,
Wait for the crash as they hit the road,
Those old people sure do explode.

So where did we get?
Seven pages and nothing yet.
Concise contractions seem to work,
But fuck you, I’m bored you jerk.

Maybe you envy my epic skill,
To rhyme for hours without a thrill,
It takes a strange and terrible knack
To push you to the point you crack.

Happy duck made of glass
Stuck a pine-cone up its ass
Pine-cone said it was flattered,
Poor duck’s ass promptly shattered.

If you want to be a god,
Just tap your foot and nod,
You’ll be the coolest man,
Listening to Elton on the can.

Comb your hair and form a band,
Call it something like “My Left Hand”
Practice for five minutes a day,
Tell a stranger you can play.

Find yourself all in the same boat,
One mass of talentless atonal scrote.
Write songs you think are deep,
About Tiddles being put to sleep.

Five months later and you play a pub,
Mixing in some wicked dub,
Let the world hear your epic song,
“My Cat Murder Felt So Wrong”

That’s it, you take the credit,
When it was the vet that dead it,
But now in epic rhyming verse,
You shot that cat into a hearse.

But why should any of you care?
You all have such pretty hair.
Eighties revival is briefly here,
Play your keyboard, shed a tear.

Sing for students in their darkened room,
Awash with post-pubescent gloom.
They feel the world is such a hard old slog,
Longing for a prince to kiss their frog.

Finally your day will come,
You musically talentless retro-bum.
You step out upon the stage,
Playing to girls of legal age.

The lights come up and you crack a frown,
Now’s your chance to get ‘em down.
Yet someone forgot to bring the tape,
So you mime, pretend, and blankly ape.

Opening for U2 was meant to be your break,
Now it seems there’s only shit inside your cake.
Then you glance down and scream,
You’re trouserless… it’s just a dream.

Wake up in a bedsit puddle,
All the sheets are in a muddle,
You’ve fallen asleep reading Razzle,
Way’d it go… You sure did dazzle.

I didn’t run out of stuff here… I just got really bored.