Hateful Sonatta

You are the honey in my cardiac arrest
You are the Taffy in my asphyxiation
You are the sugar in my hypothermia
You are the chocolate in my haemorrhaging
Each drop that lands on my fingers
Sends me each shuffle closer to expiration
Each fragment you rip of me
Gathers dust on a pile in the basement
You are the maggots in my Granny Smith
You are the mildew in my bathroom suite
You are the cancer in my major graduate
You are the salmonella in my bake sale
Each trace of poison I carry in me
Get’s charitably shared throughout my community
Each glimmer of light I spy inside you
Turns into a siren light by the cliff-side
Yet each chance I get to side step you
I choose to play ignorant
What else is there to do on a Sunday afternoon
After staring bug eye’d at the window, ogling buffoons

– Lnc0

Coast Crush

Cat’s eyes, a bow, emerald earnings and a rabbit tooth necklace
A black dice bracelet, a Minnie Mouse pin,
A goats skull tattoo, and a pitch black dose of Manic Panic
Just some of the tools you use to fish-hook my attention in the cafeteria
As the light ricochets from your jade skull ring
And preforms a calypso radiance, through the rabble and catches my eyes

2 set’s, a drama class and a lack of knowledge of Manson’s discography
The only things that separated us from beyond the nod in the hallway
The wit of the tongue spies a cobblestone path through mutual friends
And drunkenly made brothers, that was laid out before me
But if I ever got to your door how could I captivate you?
A lexicon of lullabies and artistry vs. a note left on the fridge

But I can’t keep my mind out of the picture show
A 24 hour double feature of maybe’s and possibles
Of spending 3.50 on a return to the coast
Cross-legged in your room in our Sunday Best
Sing-songing along to Nicole Dollganger
Under the porcelain surveillance of your doll collection
And your lemon and lime bearing predecessor
Gulping down the sour taste of the looming Pythagoras homework

You could send that weary neck off to lunch for a while
Put my shoulder blades to the test outside the tourist trap
Comparing toy capsule trinkets and penguin bar one liners
Turning a blind eye and letting the weekend roll away
Maybe I could ignite the Stella bottle and make you a fireworks show
Ignoring the niggling boundaries of reality
Maybe we could take the next coach out of town
Ignoring the fact this is all still a day dream
I never left the screening, still stuck to the chewing gum in my seat
No amount of accidental bumps between lessons can turn this into a documentary

A documentary that would end with a stroll from the Cod-boy And Son’s
After spending my mum’s bus money on rounds of Soul Blade
And onslaught of red hue revealing the lizard contacts in your eyes
As we pick up the pace, your way to outrun the curfew
Spend the rest of the night sing-a-longing to Nicole Dollganger
“Yeah my baby has a baby, but it’s not me”

A peanut butter sandwich and Yazoo milkshake later I get out my seat
Slogg my arse empty handed to get grilled in double science
We pass glances at the exit, as you head to double drama
Swallow another day where we stay as we are: Strangers

– Lnc0

International Women’s Day. (Late)

I wish the women of the Congo

or Afghanistan or China or South Africa

didn’t need feminism and could stand

up on a pedestal with you because

you happened to win the geographical lotto.

Dismissing a whole way of thinking,

that could make lives better, isn’t

so easy when you’re living in the rape

capital of the world, being forced to

marry a stranger or being denied

sexual pleasure through mutilation.

If you put on your blinders, feminism

might seem like a relic of the suffragettes

which isn’t needed in your individual

experience. It’s nice you can walk

to Starbucks, spend your disposable

income on empty calories and feel

safe. Then you can go home to your

£400 laptop and even though you

have a more global view than anyone

else in history, you will still tweet about how

feminism is evil as if you’re

more important than other women.

Even if we shrunk it back down to our small island,

equality is still a delusion; these problems

are on our doorstep and, sure, if you put

your fingers in your ears then you can

block out the cries for help from the

four women next to you who have experienced

sexual violence and listen to how

the pay gap is a myth as if that’s the

most pressing issue. You can laugh

at feminists, ride your high horse

above them all the way to the ballot

box, trampling those girls whose families

are holding them back from democracy

because they happened to be born with

breasts. You can tip-ex the 19th of

November out of the calendar and cry

every year about how there’s no day

set aside for men instead of educating

yourself and working to promote male

issues but that might be too much like

activism and you don’t want to be

confused for someone who cares too

much.

Or you can accept that power is not

absolute, suffering is not exclusive

to you and feminism is not a

global view. You drew a lucky hand

in the social poker game

and instead of playing your cards

to your chest you can share

them round so every woman

get’s to draw for herself. You

got to decide you didn’t need

feminism which is only possible

because of the work of those

women you seem to disregard.

You don’t have to call yourself

a feminist, because it’s all about choice.

but

If we all worked together, women

and men, on this one day instead

of turning our nose up at preconceived

notions then maybe, one day,

every woman can say:

“I don’t need feminism too.”

– Francesniff

Lil effeminate one

In the crux of a new addiction across the nation
And they’re indulging in full
It’s the deconstruction of an Identity to an algorithm
“Your giving strain to that uniform with your form”
“That jacket gives me pause with your clashing chromosomes”
Well here’s something to choke on with your pies and Carlsberg;

Maybe I just don’t care

If it’s too feminine then I’ve repulsed the right kind
Obsessive and convulsive with patriotic hate
If it’s too effeminate then I’m repugnant in all the right ways
Because spouting verses and hymns and comparing dicks

Wow, that sounds incredibly straight

And your saying it’s gross, nowhere near gruff like a bloke oughta’
That’s funny cos I don’t recall your companion complaining
When she’s collecting wood from the bed under her nails
And lamenting how “The boy is nothing compared to the man”

– Lnc0

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

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

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

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

– Lnc0

The Lucky Mallet

Little kids can’t help be to lay in bed at night
And dream about getting their mits on the Lucky Mallet
After just one little bop on top of their heads
They’ll burst forth to an elevation like they’ve never imagined

“For now I’ll just keep you under the sheets Mr.Mallet
Getting giddy under the golden glow
Counting the days down like Christmas till I can bust you out
Then every inch will be my playground
The coffee, The smoke sticks, The fancy clothes
The stacks of gore digitized onto little CDs
Finally they’ll have to listen to what I say
I can’t wait for the ol’ tap tap tap”

But what a depressing little scenario to imagine
That given if this fictitious object came into fruition
They would bop bop bop without a moments hesitation
It just shows that from their little eyes
All the days out with the family down the beach
All the make believe games down the local wood
All the electronic art that’s been passed down as gifts
Doesn’t mean a damn thing to them

“They hold back features on a time-based-unlock
Not even giving me the courtesy of a synopsis
Just to get a few more years on the stall
The hours of experience they’ve earned on earth
Pushing trolleys and calling Sandra a bitch in the breakroom
The prefect justification to talk me down to a hush
Well when I get big I’m gonna show them all
With a bop on the ol’ noggin I’ll shut them up”

Could it be in an effort to glorify our actions
The 4 weeks grind to get the funds
To gather dime a dozen technology and architecture
That beautiful way we lie to ourselves
We’ve altered their viewpoints too?
Despite the fact that if it were any of us
And we got our hands on the Lucky Mallet
We’d bop bop bop and go back, without hesitation

As Preformed By Domestic

– Lnc0