The Most Melancholy Choir.

The most melancholy,

macabre and disconcerting choir,

the sparks of the brimstone

and the sparks of the fire.

The lines glide gleaming to the next stop,

swooping and screaming, bat-like to its coop

the sparks and the screams leave little denial

of this unending choir on repeat, on a loop.

No steam trains and smoke for the glory of Gothic,

only tube trains toiling and boiling, screeching beneath

screaming and streaming, these worms through their hole

demand a voice and a hearing through gritted teeth.

The most melancholy,

macabre and disconcerting choir,

the sparks of the brimstone

and the sparks of the fire.

“The chaos is the pay off

for clanging and bangs

and for this orchestra of torture”

the choir clearly sang.

They sang for the noise,

the action and bangs

“Why do you need chaos?”

They repeatedly sang.

The train horn screamed steamy,

and the train halted in dust.

No one to get on

this train of rot and of rust.

The choir got off,

their voices grew fainter and soft

and they sang so soft and sombre

for the lives they had lost.

The choir couldn’t grow older

and grow out of the choir

and were destined for the melancholy

singing and sparks for the fire.

They turned back to the train

and re took their seats

as the record re-hooked

on its loop and the sparks did re-heat.

With their angelic screams

they took it from the top

as the train disappeared into the darkness

racing eternal to the next stop.

Bobbing for Apples

Bobbing for apples,

humming on plums,

feeling his shaft

around my gums.

Tugging down panties,

drinking my juice,

fingers inside me

like I’ve been goosed.

My mates will all call me

a dirty, sad slag

but then they will call me

and ask if I gagged.

They are just jealous

’cause I’m well fitter, blates

and all the boys want me

more than my mates.

Without E’s we argue,

we fight and we bitch,

with E’s we cuddle

and lez up and kiss.

The boys fucking love it

but I don’t like minge

I like cock-a-plenty

after a binge.

The boys they all want me.

The girls want me too

and if they say they don’t

they’re just jealous,

I’m better than you.

Who needs good grades

when you’ve got looks like mine?

Who needs good grades

when you can get high?

Buns in the oven

can be deflated before cooked

and drugs, they’re just fun,

none of us hooked.

Like a fish in the water

my gills take in and flush out;

you can drown in ecstacy

but from E you can’t drown.

Fair enough you can’t piss

and you chew up your cheeks

but your bum cheeks will be clenching

when you both reach your peak.

Fuck, I love life.

Uni’s for geeks

why try and do well

when the future is bleak?

The money goes to darkies,

we don’t look after our own.

We give the greasy cunts money,

a car and a home.

There’s not any jobs

so the best way to make dough

is to lie and your back

and watch as he grows.

Stopping and starting,

breathing fast and then slow

until you’re lying on your back

at the funeral home.

That’s the life for me,

a variety of breaths

from drink, drugs and fucking

up to my death.

Saving Face.

I brought a mask

from a charity shop

in Richmond;

one of those classy shops

with decent shit.

The mask was softly textured,

yet solid

and firm in its morals

which was clear

when you knocked on the wood

and also in the carvings

of its regal, native, nomad face.

Two moons later

as the sucked smartie,

derived of colour, dissipated

into the blue of morning

my wife found out

about my affair.

It wasn’t the knickers

in the

c

r

e

v

i

c

e

of my back pocket,

still stained from the action

in the back seat of my car.

It wasn’t the condom wrapper,

crisp, clinical and open

as it released the demons

from Pandora’s box.

It wasn’t even the sordid texts

over the period

of a gasping, sweating, lusting year.

It wasn’t any of these things.

No.

That mask was fucking cursed.

Operate.

We lay together in your cold, pristine room with the street light outside shining on my face like an interrogation lamp. You always needed to know what was going on inside; my thoughts, my feelings and the fears which caused my nightmares. How was I to know this information was only desired for ammunition? The bayonet was hung up for now and you were still learning how to use it properly. How to slice into me where it would never heal. Your sheets were crisp and the bed hard, reminding me of an operating table. Soft lips pressed down hard on mine, forcing me to open up. How personal it is, to kiss. I stroked your limp hair away from your face and ran fingers down your neck. My baby.

Harsh bristles chafed against the smoothness of my skin. You lifted your head up, and although the light from outside caused shadows on your face in the darkness I could feel your almond eyes on me. “I love you.” you said in the brittle voice that always seemed to be trapped inside your somewhere, like you were talking into yourself. The silence hung there like a man on the gallows waiting for the end. All I could think about was how irritating the light was in my eyes because when I looked away from it I was blind. I shifted about as I looked down and cleared my throat. Your hard, slim body tensed against mine as you lifted your arms and broke the embrace that had held us together. “Don’t you love me?”

I shook my head remembering the first night we had met. How disinterested I had been and how you had pursued. Like a spoilt child eternally determined to get what you want you had told me I was stunning and had taken your breath away. Although I knew the chat up line was older than my Grandad I realised I had been single too long from being too fussy and decided it was time to have some fun. The good times didn’t last long though and I soon saw the mood swings and the vindictiveness. Your venomous tongue could spit out poison and have me doubled over on my knees in minutes. Like a sculptor you would carve into me and transform me into what you wanted. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know what you want from me.” I said. My voice was small and my lips curled into a grimace. I did love you. I just didn’t know if it was enough. Your body sent an electric shock to mine as you jolted from my words.

All you ever wanted was the unconditional love that you couldn’t get from your family. A Father in the army who came into your room at night when he returned on leave and a Mother who turned a blind eye to it, pretended to still be asleep as her husband swapped one bed for another. It was too much for me. I was too small a crutch for your pain. You climbed off the operating table that had ripped us apart and put us back together again with plasters of apologies and bandages of poorly thought out cliché gestures. We were each others novice surgeon and didn’t have a clue how to make these scars heal. You looked down on me as I lay there wounded; your face denied of any emotion. I raised my hand to yours and when it was in my grasp you shook me off, sneered, and walked away.

The Silicone Baby…

Spawned from a world obsessed with beauty and youth, silicone baby came out of the womb like a model comes out onto a catwalk. No blood at all, instead a sunkissed shine which made you expect a tanning machine to come rolling out of there after the placenta. Instead of screaming and scrunching up it’s face, the baby pouted and winked a perfectly coloured emerald blue eye. The doctors stared, their mouths agape. How could this happen? How could a perfect child to outdo all the “perfect children” in the world have been born? And why did this baby feel so different, sort of rubbery and perfectly soft like a whale? The answer was in the Mother. Her of the platinum blonde hair, cheek implants, botox and pink lip gloss. Her tits perfectly perky and pert with no hint of milk excretion. The Mother smiled at this creation that had come out of her soon to be stitched back to virginity vagina and reached out. With the baby in her arms she looked down at it and after stroking it’s perfectly soft hair said “Darling, we really need to get you some hair extensions.”

 

– Written by Jo Cooper. Silicone Baby created by Jo Cooper. Ta.