I woke up and turned on the lamp,
Only to find Noel Edmonds in my bed.
I could feel his sweaty, wrinkly little prick
Nestled between my thighs:
My hairy, manly thighs.
The hotel room smelled like stilton.
On his flaxen beard, a little waterfall of my semen
Was beginning to drip down onto the travelodge pillow.
On the bureau, there were two champagne glasses and an ice bucket;
But I could not see the bottle.
I looked under the blanket
And found one tenth of the base protruding from my sweet Noel's arse crack.
Between the dark green flower curtains,
A small layer of dull morning sky peered into the room.
May all my days bring pleasure such as this.
I call this Society to order in the name of the pursuit of (failed) art and, to that end, shall furnish you with (suitably terrible) verse, adopting the '14 year old angst-ridden toss-pott' style, a firm staple of awful poetry.
She's in the mirror now.
The volume's up high, but
She can hardly hear.
Ha, story of her life.
Why does she bother?
Every time she looks at herself
She sees another face.
Be yourself, they always say.
Why should she when no-one else is?
Our masks are all we have.
But she's too angry to care.
Thank you and good night.
Where on earth were you? Have you not seen my "Foxo, where art thou?" thread?
I keep going back and re-reading Amores. It only gets better.
wake up sleepyhead
now im by your side
your breathing quickens
as in I slide
A fleeting flick
of those brown eyes
My speeding prick
your anus prised
makes me hard
soft like plums they mould
my hands a blur
the pussys purr
How does one know if he is a failed artist?
like a dripping wet
idly sun bathing
on a July evening
my love is fresh
fresher than a rose
on top of a coffin
as the soil trickles down
OH MY GOD
I cannot survive