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

GHOULCHESTER!

There’s no two ways around it tonight was their night
On the 31st all the creeps and ghouls
Hop on to the sixty-fear on head street
The one the mortals though was lost in the great crash of ‘87
It flashes the ticket to the headless driver and shuffles to the back
Colchesters cream of the crop are showing up for the festivities tonight
The whitest ghosts around the abandoned estate
The zombies who’s mothers could still recognize them
And it’s not feeling so assured after a glimpse of the company
Frankenstien assured it before it left, that he made a looker
Made from only the finest people that have died within the last year
The cheekbones and abs of the slickest men
The silky hair and the thighs of the most luscious of ladies
It just crossed what could be interpreted to be fingers
And hoped it’d slip into the background

All the skeletons are chatting their teeth to the jams
A mixtape of Nick Cave, The Cramps, Bauhaus
The mummies are showing off their new designer wraps
The wolf men are showing off the kind of guns
A huntsman could only hope to fight him with
While the harpies stroke his fine coat
Dropping feathers he snarls nothings in her ears
Meanwhile the Jiangshi’s saving face out the back
Complaining how the ableist scum inside friendzoned him
While the socially awkward swamp monsters
Pet the house chimera in the corner

She spots it’s hunched physique from across the room
The proceeds to say goodbye to her fellow Alraune on the wall
Introduces herself to the monster as Ssalucard
Classicly it fucks up the introduction
No matter how much it corrects itself
She’ll always know him as Frank-I-dillies monster

Their’s no way in hiding the fact that’s she’s keen
Although if it’s theories are reality remains to be seen
She smuggles into her vial of blood a shot of JD
Thus heightening the guarantee
She flashes her fangs after she takes a sip
The proceeds to play the janitor with her tongue

She grabs it’s arm and damn near pulls the stitches off
As Jack The Ripper by Screaming Lord Sutch starts to play
They brushed past the nymphs and the sprites
That where playing pranks on the dance floor
The will-o-wisp illuminate the dancefloor
Inbetween the Dybbuks and the Golems
They shimmied the floor into submission
While never taking their gaze of each other

They wondered outside of the club together
By this point the Wolfmen and Anubis
Are barking at eachother in the taxi queue
While the Mandrake girlfriends cry to split them up
Knowing when a party’s over
They head to the pumpkin patch

The vamptress lead it through the vegetation
Dodging the awkward Jack-O-Lanterns
Getting it on like they were blending with the environment
…They weren’t
They sat down underneath the Zaccoum
She takes it’s hand, runs her finger down the stitches
Looks into it’s eyes
“Hey, stay with me Frankie”

– Lnc0

The Wolfman

On the thigh of a moulding oak
In the throat of an urban forest
Christened “The Queens Palm” by visionaries years ago
With grand ideas of distributing the wealth
Of a 2 for £7.50 ciders amongst the poor
Is the setting of our tale tonight

With the dust of the bricks
Still creeping under her fingernails
A young woman clutches to the walls
All in the hopes of gaining some balance
As she’s forced out of the bar
Using the witchcraft known as atmosphere
The glamour which takes the form
Of the shitty stares from the pensioners
The Necromancer who warps into the shape
Of a long lost lover who’s cut off all ties; in just an evenings time

She winces and staggers ontop the tarmac
After giving the moon the most agonizing cry
She takes his 6 month anniversary gift
Snaps it from her neck and throws into the gutter
Followed very shortly but her lunch
She slumps into the monochrome fields
Leaving the tatty car park behind her
Wiping the disguise leaking down her cheeks
Injects a does of oxygen up her nostrils
And turns back to address the night sky

With the force of a culprit
Of a bruised chest and broken rib cage
His footsteps scar the very earth beneath him
His snarling shaking the excess from the trees
His teeth unable to damn the overflow
Of heightened expectations
As his next meal enters his yellow stained vision
His claws sink into the bark with excitement
Melting into the perspective of the trees
Hovering through the grassy fields
He’s been stalking this one for a while now
He knows once she’s gone, no one’s gonna miss her
As he creeps closer and ever closer
To the young woman pleading with the heavens
So close now, that her sobbing shakes his mane
So close, his breathing comes to the screeching halt
So close, he knows exactly how she’s going to taste
So close, he can’t stop thinking about it

The Wolfman strikes!

The saddest part was this all could’ve been avoided
While she was dragging her way to the back fields
She wasn’t alone, she passed by a few prying eyes
There was the old couple on their way home
That took one look at her booty shorts, and low cut top
And sneered her away from the main paths
There was the group of hooligan young boys
That decided to showcase their mothers lack of affection
By steering her off the alleyways with the team calling
There was the local student brigade
Hanging out in the car park, stiff as stone
As if her sight was based on movement
So next time you see a fellow human in need
A “Are you okay?” or a “How you doing?” couldn’t be amiss

Because you may just be talking to the Wolfman’s next victim

– Lnc0

OH GOD I’M SO SORRY!/Spotify playlist

I can’t give some deep symbolic reasons other then “Real life is happening” and “Writers Block” The updating will come back soon I pinky Prom, I got 50 unfinished Ideas so when the “Finishing Ideas me” comes back into town it’s going to be beautiful

But what kind of human would I be if I just left you empty handed? I use music A LOT as a fuel for poetic inspirations so every now and then, I’ll be updating a Spotify playlist of music that’s inspired me to write, if I ever write a new poem I’ll more then likely update the playlist with the songs that helped create it. I do this in the hope I can inspire fellow writers to put the pen to paper in the same I was inspired!

– Lnc0

OH GOD I’M SO SORRY!/Spotify playlist

Milkshake

Milkshaaaake
The only way to start the day
A spike of vanilla on the Tuesday
A burst of strawberry on the following day
The hints of honeycomb in my molars
During Thursdays Crunchie special

Milkshaaaaaake
Me and the Bea and the Shake
Chillin’ on the park as the sun goes down
Looking into her mocha eyes, straw in mouth
Never wanting this moment to end
And when it does I’ll go back to Shake Away
Then I’ll get another one

Milkshaaaaaaaake
It’s always on my mind
Oh lawrdy now I’m craving
If I lay you down back at mine
And serve you up the triple pop
Will you give me your spare change
So I can afford a Baked Alaska?

Milshaaaaake
The only reason to live
Spread it on your cornflakes
Use it as your bathwater
Inject it into your medicine
Guzzle a litre on the pavement
No matter what happens
No matter what gets taken away
They can never take away your Milkshake
Smeared all over your mouth

– Lnc0

The Description Of Fear

Under the generous visibility of the cracks in the curtains
And the beams of a malfunctioning laptop charger
Reality tags out of the ring and my imagination picks up the slack
The walls are bleeding residue from the folds of the plaster
The vacant spaces that exist within the confines of my furniture
All pull together to create a nocturne of creaks and moans
With each note hitting my spine with precision
The performance fills the bedroom which serves as an inspiration
Of monsters and assassins who have materialized in my space
I start seeing profiles in pile of washing up in the corner
I start seeing a full body portrait in the shadow of a mop
I start seeing my worst nightmares flash for a frame in my sight

Force shut them level 5 security kevlar lids all you want
I can find a way to pry my way through
Injecting my venom into every vein and crease I find
That creativity and imagination you pride yourself on
Will now be your ultimate undoing
You can never rid yourself of those piercing eyes
Oh my dear you can keep the DVD player on all night
But your just delaying my glorious decent
When your daddy’s out on the razz and your misses away
I will crawl down the wall where you rest your weary head
You’ll open your peepers when you feel my breath on your head
And when you see my grin you’ll know it’s far too late

I become aware of every millimetre of movement my body takes
I begin to fear each exhale is revealing my position to intruders
Just as I am rudely dragged back into the land of the conscious
A emulation of a human comes into my sight for a brief second
With her turned a full 180, as her 6 arms grip to my ceiling
She gives a grin and a stare while is locked right into my gaze
Seems to be aimed at worlds far away from mine
As if to play a cruel joke my mind conjures up a actresses deliver
And in an ungodly tone communicates with me

Your attempts to avoid thinking of me make me chuckle
It’s not just exclusive to the confines of this house
Everytime you hear me echoing down the alleyway
When you get a glimpse of my stare in an empty window
Your body will stiffen and the dread will start to grip you
Even the act of trying to relax to junk food T.V
Becomes the most stressful task, as your muscles tense up
As you sweat and shake with your back against the wall
And you succumb to madness and you scream at the sky
That’s when I’ll crawl from below and grab you from behind

As performed by Domestic

– Lnc0

An Excuse Not To Try

As I take another sip of the local suds
While you sit me down at the back
And confess to me your packing some extra baggage
A Diagnosable mindset with a name you can’t pronounce
As you look at me with doom and gloom in your eyes

I can’t comprehend how I’m going to live the rest of my life
With this shadow looming over me at every corner
It won’t get better, it won’t go away, it can’t be cured
You can’t threaten to leave it’s milk out of the fridge till it moves out
My life is ruined with this monkey stuck to my back

But just Imagine if Mr. Organised succumbed to the same mindset
Threw that job application for Dreamworks into the shredder
And handed in his resignation from the local film college
Because he knew he had to live with himself forever
He’d stay awake at night, toss and turning as if he was in a grave
Because he knew somewhere in West Yorkshire
Some plebeian decided to order their The Who CD collection
By year of release but made a calculated error
They put “The Ultimate Collection” before “The Very Best Of The Who”
So what’s the point in dreaming or making something of yourself
Because he’ll always have that image of that crime scene of a shelf

Imagine if Mr. Acne succumbed to the same mindset
Smashed that CD-r with his demo tape on it
And broke the band up before their début charity gig
Cracked the fret of his guitar in two
And slowly unlearned all the songs he’s written
Because he knew he had to live with himself forever
He’d lock himself up and stare vacantly at the walls
Because he knows after everytime he smeared that cream on his face
The new prescription medicine that guarantees clear skin
It’ll just grow back during that brief period
Of running out of cream and going to the pharmacy
A grave 10 minutes of walking down to the local Boots
Not to mention them whole entire SECONDS
Of applying the stuff two the 4 spots that remain after a shower
So what’s the point in dreaming or making something of yourself
Because he’ll always have to check his face every now and then

Imagine if Mrs. Quavers succumbed to the same mindset
Burned up the 300 pages of her novel
Stopped going to her book club every month
Threw out all her favourite books into the ravine
Fed all her magazines to the dog
Got rid of every thing in the house that has words in it
Smoked everything in the house that has a story to it
Because she knew she had to live with herself forever
She’d stay home from work and pace through the halls
Because she knows no matter how she spends her time
Every 4 hours she’ll crave for another packet
She’ll have to endure the pain of filling out the stock report
While tasting the disappointing husk of saliva
Everytime she walks into the cafe at lunch break
With another packet instead of a Freddo bar
She’s never felt so ashamed in her life
And she’ll have to trudge back home in the rain
Because now she’s 40p short of getting a single home
So what’s the point in dreaming or making something of yourself
Because she’ll always be thinking of the next packet before lunch

You can throw extreme’s at me all you like
Slather them all in the sauce of your sarcy tone
But it doesn’t change the hand I’m stuck with
Your Skitzofinniky, I’m Boretistic, and Mrs. Johnson has a Peg Leg
Those extra percussions are no doubt an annoyance
And the way our labels are like Abra-Kadabra
They can turn you into a three legged puppy in peoples eyes
If life can stub a toe, our’s can break their legs

But when has that ever been an excuse not to try?

As Preformed By Domestic

– Lnc0

The Kids Don’t Know What The Fuck Love Is

What is this bottomless source of inspiration they call love?
Will it give me a reason to step out of the door in the morning
What is this immortal and uncontrollable desire they call love?
Will it make me finally clear the dust in these arteries?
What is this mythical force they call love?
Will it’s claw reach out and slap the knife from my throat?
What is this all knowing, all seeing entity they call love?
Will it stroke my hair and stop the late night sobbing?

They tell us not to worry, they tell us it’s not everything
Then they tell us to fucking consume by every square inch
Self-indulgent scriptures of bloated romantics
Acting like it’s as natural as wearing the shirt on your frame
And if you dare turn up to the social gathers on your own
Then you’re the outsider, the kid that got picked last in P.E
Arm in arms they give you the most detestable looks
Forcing you back like a laser beam back to the dungeon where you belong

Disingenuous sonnets shoved down my fucking ears every day
From deflated personalities, who have beam devoid of it long ago
Trying their hardest to recall a time a fallacy could serve as the fuse
I’d give anything to feel something so powerful
That’d it’ll reduce me to such a pathetic snivelling wreck
But I’d be thankful, because I was eroding on the floor with another

Would I stop feeling so lazy, if someone else was there egging me on?
Get your arse out of that chair you’ve got to keep my interest
Would I stop feeling so hollow, if someone else was there to make me react?
Unfasten my bra and I’ll bring this poor lost soul back to life
Would I stop feeling like I want to die, if someone else was there to stop me?
Oh honey you’re a god, you’re an Adonis, you’re anything you want me to say
Would I stop feeling like their’s no point, if someone else was there to give me context?
I’ll rip you open from your insides and give you subtext

You sit there from a top a makeshift stepladder and bark orders at me
To make a rough estimate for every aspect of my life from here on out
But when I can’t even begin to grasp this simple and yet universal concept
How could I even be sure of 1% of what could reach out and trip me up
Student loans, Career prospects, Mortgage, Kids college funds and Pensions
I can’t even get her to hold my hand before she leaves on the 61
Oh god what’s the point of trying, I’m lagging behind the crowd by 2 years
And now suddenly 80 years till my grave feels like it’s tomorrow

As preformed by Domestic

– Lnc0

A Man May Have Died, But At Least This Conversation Hasn’t‏

Oh dreary, eerie me the fun and laughter’s has come to an end
Someone’s gone done a murder and a shanking
It sends a shiver down the stay at home mothers spine’s
Suddenly the walk down to Morrison is fraught with fright
People hiding in the trees, Cars stalking too close to the sidewalk
Kids coughing sends your heart rate into a critical state!

But your not the kind of thrive on controversy
But you can’t help but notice
This is the closest you’ve felt with your nursery friends
The walk home is filled with half baked theories
And exaggerated hearsay from the local publications
Like telling ghost stories under the moonlight

“Oh maybe it was the hoddies
I think it was the squaddies
I know for a fact it’s them Albanians
See? I told you this is what would happen!”

Walking your kid home has never been so lively

You’re not the heartless type that’s for sure!
But you can’t help but feel relief
When the pot holes of silence that would creep in along
When the gossip and slander would fall short
During a natter with Maggie down the laundrette
Are filled slowly with your fabricated updates

“Jenny though she saw someone hanging around
Michael swore he heard someone in the pub saying they did it
Sally heard the council are trying to cover it up
George still insists it was the Albanians”

Suddenly living with a husband you hate
And taking care of the kid you resent
Seemed a little less maddening that day

As preformed by Domestic

– Lnc0

The Kids Of The 60’s And 70’s Are Useless‏

We’ve been told we’re the lost generation
An age that’s thrown our lives to the cycle of sleaze
But we’re really the generation that’s just trying to cope
Picking up the trash left behind by the settlers of ‘67
Coming home to an empty home again and again
Feeding of the scraps and sparing our own rods

Tell your mumma to mind her own business
Tell your pappy he doesn’t have to worry
Because the kids of the 60’s and 70’s never grew up
And it’s up to us to clean up after them

The kids of the 80’s and 90’s are in reality so much more
We’ve learnt from our neighbours to swat away the handicaps
Of a disappearing drunken father, you only offered you another fag
Of a malfunctioning mother who traded your lunch money for another hit
And for those parents who decided to stick around
We’ve learnt to only expect, to be told the things we never did
To be told we can’t do things, To treat NVQ’s like pictures on the fridge
To accept we’re punching bags for their own poor life choices

We’ve adapted to take compliments from the mirror
To treat our homes no less of a warzone then the urban jungle outside of it
To drown out that nagging in our ear that tries to reinforce
That just because they never saw you staving of suicide
While staring at another application on Reed.com
That it never happened, and that your useless

We’ve learnt to brush it off our shoulders
Because when the time comes, after hours and decades of labour
Of honing your acrylic blade, and sharpening your tongue
And you see the kids of the 60’s and 70’s
Chewing on their Beastie Boys Vinyl and while sucking their thumbs
Looking confused without a son or daughter to take their anger out on
And asking what they could’ve possibly of done wrong to have been left behind
You’ll know you came all the way up here from tattered clothes
And feeding of the scraps of government donated rations
And you’ll know you did it all on your own

Tell your pappy to mind his own business
Tell your mumma you got it all under control
Tell them you still believe they love you
Because the kids of the 60’s and 70’s couldn’t even keep a cat alive
Let alone try and cushion the blow from the sober fact
That the kids of the 80’s and 90’s have no future to look forward too

– Lnc0