VI – The Lovers

It would’ve been so easy y’know?
The oak was in clear sight at the cross roads, my number 12
By this point I could’ve had ‘em pecking seeds out of my palms
My sense of fulfilment appropriately enough: full and my purpose clear
Kick my heels up at the mounts resort and await 13 to take it away
But to think what I’d lose in the process…

I’d miss all the time you’ve called me a two-bit cunt
As the red shell connects with peaches rear wheels

I’d miss all the intense colliding of bunions
As traumatic as the plates beneath California
As we feast on peanut butter sandwiches and milkshake in the park

I’d miss the times your nashers have sunk into my arm
As I trace the lights shine around your Jugulum
During the closer of a drunken summer festival

I’d miss the surge of the heat as we project;
An impressive form of shadow play on the tent walls
For any music lovers passing by to see
Accompanied by the sounds of J.T echoing from the main stage

I’d miss the ways that your eyes dilate as I outline;
My predictions for the ends of this Journey
Eye that believe I can and wants to bare witness

I’d miss wiping away your tears from my shirt
As we collectively take the strike to our emotions
By a scenario writers attempt on our brazen personae

There isn’t a prize, a title, salary, career
An inflated sense of fulfilment, ego or self esteem
That could be worth your absence
Anything worth doing is worth doing
With you illuminating the view, my number 6

– Lnc0

Dedicated to Esme

Just finished Breakfast Club and a couple of things:

1) Deffo now in my top 5 films no doubt
2) WHY DID BRIAN NOT GET ANY GIRLS? Real rage
3) I am John Bender in another life

Real Rage [Version 1 – Ongoing]

Now that I have your attention ladies and gentleman
Ooohhh…. Where do I even begin?
With all the mountainous amount of ways
That when I see you out and about with that cheeky boy grin
You make the bile rise up to my gullet
As you wink at the guys and give them a high-five
And you leave the infected flakes on your lips with the girls
It makes me question the point of staying alive
You wear your Topman 2 for 10 tailor suit like an Armani
And the musk of new Lynx decaying pheasant acting as your aura
Your hair’s slicked backed, the cherry on top of shredding your humanity
Thought I feel it’s missing one thing, a healthy dose of inflicted gore… -a
When your up in the bar roaring and howling
About that girl you ‘had’ in the bushes to your mates
Taking each act of humiliation like a trophy on your wall
As your bros’ grip put cracks in their drinks as they hold back the hate
Because of course none of it happened did it?
So I would start on about how you rape innocent girls
But that would imply that when they set there eyes on you
They don’t take the first taxi home and fucking hurl
Two Sambuca’s and Setlla’s hence since
Your breath starts to smell like Jack Daniel’s piss
You ask a pair of ladies if they are of celestial decent
As they start to head towards the door since I think they got the gist
You just can’t take “Fuck off you Republic dwelling troll” as an answer
You treat a grope of the arse like a personality quirk
I imagine she wants a skin graft operation after that
So that the feeling of your sweaty hairy palms doesn’t lurk
How could they not fall for you? Fall under your spell?
When you scream at them, calling them a skank
There must be god, if atleast you always walk home alone
Your night ends with tears, Vaseline, Eastenders and disappointingly short wank
I hope one day a young woman’s lad catches you in the act
And he downs you with just one nads-aiming punt
And as he leans down, he identified you for what you are
A cunt

– Lnc0

Christmas Shopping [W.I.P Ver.1]

I turn my head to the tidal waves in the ceiling
I play a game of Dig Dug with the pipes
With sprites that just aren’t there in the mortal plane
Sunglasses toting tennis balls armed with 45’s
Firing lemons at the purple ball clan
I think it says something about your psyche
If you lose in you’re fictional arcade game
That’s pre-determined in your own head
Is it a sign of my own lack of confidence
To carry out the convictions in my life
Do I just assume I will fail in any task I take on?
Or is it a statement that try as I might
I cannot overcome the will of the masses?
And actually… Why have I put myself in a situation
Where I would even think about this tat?

Picture if you DARE a decaying charity shop
Wrestling for dominance in between the temptress
Of the stench of fresh ginger bread coming out the over
And the harmony of the latest electronic fairytales
Forced to be ensnared as a spectator
Bound to a cm ledge by the window
That’s like a blade digging right into the snug of my erase cheek
It’s the only thing reminding me that I’m still alive in this limbo
As I watch my betrothed repeat another contradiction

“I thought you said you wanted plaid clothes?”
“Yeah but this particular number has a thicker collar
Which of course recontextualizes the entire thing
Changing it’s status in the flow of modern fashion
From something that obeys the current trends
To something you could infer satires and glorifies them
From an outsiders point of view”

I wish someone would recontextualize me
Changing my status from the flow of modern fashion
From something that obeys the current trends
To something you could infer satires and glorifies them
From an outsiders point of view
And by that I mean punch me in the face, slit my throat,
And burn the corpse via a holy ritual
So that even my ghost doesn’t have to endure this shopping spree any more

“We have many factors to consider young patron
If I were to make a transaction of funds
For which context sensitive scenarios
It would be appropriate to utilize the piece I have in front of me
But considering the possibility that next time at Jan’s
There could be a recreation of the seven plagues of Moses
Right in the middle of shropshire! COULD HAPPEN!
Then if that where to occur it would blend with the colour of the shoes
Unlike if I wore the same ones in Blue that I have at home”

I would moan, but I can’t say I was any better
Switching back and forth in the record store
Between the Record Store day 2012 exclusive single
With the version of the obscure B-side that came with Frosties boxes
That’s 12.4 seconds longer with a slightly different flute
Or the other super rare vinyl with the outtakes
Of hit 2013 radio single, which is just the singer humming the baseline
Clearly both treasures would come into my possession
But with a agonizing week long wait in between
A 40 minute session of deciding was very warranted
It’d of been 45 but I do have them both on mp3 so it’s fine
…I feel it was just, why did my companion look so annoyed?

As preformed by Domestic

– Lnc0

Domestic Gig Announced! (20/12/2014)

Hey guys and gals, any of you Colchester natives free on the 20th of December, we are doing something of a ‘Comeback gig’ at the USOL Festive Due at Slack Space! Below is a link to the Facebook event (Sorry they have no other online presence).

https://www.facebook.com/events/1513684335575417/

Also side from us there will be a local flute artist and local comedians! I know the phrase ‘local comedians’ usually sends shivers down peoples spine, but trust me they are hilarious, and Richard Dawkins is definitely going to be there

– Lnc0

0 – The Fool (Draft 2)

Like a cup of a half filled luke-warm tea
Left to freeze, at the mercy of a breeze in a picture perfect winters setting
I am slowly losing the properties linked to my overall purpose
But it’s of no fault of a good for nothing tenant
Who’s jolted the mug from it’s coaster in the living room
And relocated behind the curtains of the study
But a day dreaming priss, too meek to shift his glacier stained feet
Left to drink the pisswater that is his cooled down tea

It’s an easy routine to play out on long weekdays
It’s the upbringing, the unemployment, It’s the undesirables
It’s the crippling depression holding the door shut
Metaphorically, theoretically, possibly, Definitely!
As you chuck another Chicago Town box across the room
But parentheticaly, you know none of that turned on the telly
And made you watch that Man Vs Food marathon
But oh, it was such an easy routine to fall back on
A routine well due for another run around
And after the tax on your nerves the week has sprung on you!

Your groans don’t bounce off much in an empty room
Nothing that could recontextualized the vibrations you sent out
Mush up what you insinuated, and lather up what they inferred
And send it back your way on the silver spoon express
Making sure to seal away the output of groans
Catching all the little things you don’t wanna hear on the bib
Until you’re full and numb and empty of any debilitation
The worst way to debilitate yourself in the first place

Poor wounded dippy soldier
There’s no need to cover the spoon marks on your skull
Poor-or, idioms, sympathetic, congratulated!
A lovely assortment of flavours and spices
To smear around your perception
Dulling and sweetening the few senses left functioning
To make your ingrained into the leather a fantastic experience
Watch the hours fly away like dance recitals and funerals
Turning even the slow deterioration of your lobs
Such as the Wright Show into something vaguely enjoyable

It’s a comfortable thing to rest on, puffy fluffly reassurance
It IS a comfortable thing, yes! Well done
But the floorboards are far more triumphant
I’m sick of the soft creamy taste of easy living
I miss the salt and the spit running from my face
As I bulldoze my heel into the stage at the cafe
Screeching to rise above the idle chatter,
They should’ve all enacting basic human interactions for you
The shrugs, disinterested looks, the bloodbath for relevancy
I mean the rudeness; THE GALL!
Inhaling and exhaling as a means to communicate aloud!
The kind of words I rely to you people now

Don’t let the nostalgic dreams of angry teens suede you
The ways I had to remind myself, I was alive where abhorrent
The tightening of the chocker, the fists behind your door
A reminder you could fuck up someone’s day
The dignified exits, parallel to the pining returns
A reminder you where something to objectify
Fuck that, I’m not a tool in anyone’s narrative
I’m something your damn near mortified to see lost
I’ll take that notion of shining like the brightest star
And melt all your faces off with all 27 million degrees of it

Now everything is changing
No footholding, No excuses, No handholding
No spare tenner for Pizza Hut
Just 65,825 ways to go about the plains before me
With an extra 154,529 methods of tripping it up
On the concrete, not like the turf from before
I guess I should face it all with a smirk
And get on with it

As preformed by Domestic

– Lnc0

0 – The Fool (W.I.P) [Pre-Domestication]

Like a cup of a half filled luke-warm tea
Left to freeze, at the mercy of a breeze in a picture perfect winters setting
I am slowly losing the properties linked to my overall purpose
But it’s of no fault of a good for nothing tenant
Who’s jolted the mug from it’s coaster in the living room
And relocated behind the curtains of the study
But a day dreaming priss, to meek to shift his glacier stained feet
Left to drink the pisswater that is his cooled down tea

It’s an easy routine to play out on long weekdays
It’s the upbringing, the unemployment
It’s the crippling depression holding the door shut
Metaphorically, theoretically, possibly
As you chuck another Chicago Town box across the room
But parentheticaly, you know none of that turned on the telly
And made you watch that Man Vs Food marathon
But oh, it was such an easy routine to fall back on

Your groans don’t bounce off much in an empty room
Nothing that could recontextualized the vibrations you sent out
Mush up what you insinuated, and lather up what they inferred
And send it back your way on the silver spoon express
Making sure to seal away the output of groans
Catching all the little things you don’t wanna hear on the bib
Until you’re full and numb and empty of any debilitation
The worst way to debilitate yourself in the first place

It’s a comfortable thing to rest on, puffy fluffly reassurance
But the floorboards are far more triumphant
I’m sick of the soft creamy taste of easy living
I miss the salt and the spit running from my face
As I bulldoze my heel into the stage at the cafe
Screeching to rise above the idle chatter,
The shrugs, disinterested looks, the bloodbath for relevancy
The kind of words I rely to you people now

Don’t let the nostalgic dreams of angry teens suede you
The ways I had to remind myself, I was alive where abhorrent
The tightening of the chocker, the fists behind your door
A reminder you could fuck up someone’s day
The dignified exits, parallel to the pining returns
A reminder you where something to objectify
Fuck that, I’m not a tool in anyone’s narrative
I’m something you’re damn near mortified to see lost
I’ll take that notion of shining like the brightest star
And melt all your faces off with all 27 million degrees of it

Now everything is changing
No footholding, No excuses, No handholding
No spare tenner for Pizza Hut
Just 65,825 ways to go about the plains before me
With an extra 154,529 methods of tripping it up
On the concrete, not like the turf from before
I guess I should face it all with a smirk
And get on with it

– Lnc0