She didn’t consider the soul inside the bones,
The only consistent as skin starts to shed.
Everything that mattered, don’t matter no more
She can barely muster a prank, let alone a trick.
It’s a 2,000 man funeral,
But she’s the only one crying.
Sebastian Noël
I’m an A student running on D fuel
You put that together and you get a C life
And that was a fine way to live for me
I definitely never asked for the greenlight to ascend
But with your eyes drenched in tears
And your hands tied by a freshers wristband
You’re not letting me have a choice in the matter
Progress or perish, the narrative my Dear John contains
Nirvana is what we make of it, so what if mine’s on the ground floor?
With the ice cold burgers from the local caff’
Decor as gloomy as the staff, as miserable as the weather
You’d look up at me from your mouldy egg sandwich
Playing D.I.Y Pictionary with a few napkins and my Biro
But still ‘Gone With The Wind’ is out of my artistic scope
You fight through the aesthetics and conjure a smile
That’s when I theorised that we could withstand any pressure
But you’re content to get other people involved
“You could do so much good for the world”
But I don’t want to do the world any fucking good
I just want to do you some good
Evaporate the floods from your vision
Flow life back into your tired face
Fill a silent living room with your laughter
Calm you down when the family sends an opinion
That’s all the good I wanna do
Thoese are the accomplishments I hang on the fire place
Don’t send me off on a Hercules errand
I have no will to harness what I’ve got to offer
You’re where the ambition starts and ends
So let me sink the flag pole with you and a call it a life
Sebastian Noël
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
Domestic Poetry 