Boxing Day Saleouts

Handing out greetings and cheer to people we acknowledge once a year, we count the cost of 24 hours of indulgence and effluent. We count and we consider, we look at all the good things we have received, the love, the closeness, the sparkly presents, we ruminate over all the exceptional grand things we delivered: the joy in a child's eye, a Rage Against the Machine No.1 ( yeah that'll teach 'em all a lesson).
Then as we sit and groan and whimper because we overfed our hedonistic bellies with candy covered, honey roasted, alcohol soaked stocking fillers, we decide in our infinite wisdom to venture to the shops to waste what little of our savings we didn't spend on tinsel, to purchase even more crap because some minimum wage slave with a felt pen has slashed the prices on their most worthless treats.
Sometimes you just have to leave that last after dinner mint behind.
Cretins.

Turtles

Hand Grenade amputation.
Overblown miscommunication.
Interplanetary exploration.
Excessive expansion.
All the Turtle wants is a toffee.

Leftovers

Morcambe and Wise provide yuletide laughs from the past, their grainy images straining through the broken screen, smoke spewing from mangled wires that rise in ovation to expertly timed comedy routine.
Dancing candle flames diminish slipping closer to death and ornamental holder, the addition of holly and berry making the wax feel no more or less festive as it sizzles.
The perfectly paired carpet and furniture strewn with wrapping paper and blood. The effort of preparing presents and bullets. The instant of discovery and explosion, the aftermath of refuse and evidence.
Special occasion crockery stained with Turkey juice, gravy and gunpowder, chipped for eternity by spinning bone fragment.
Glittering tinsel decorations dimmed by Christmas fading, pine needles falling like tears of pain from once proud trees of celebration.
She will never live to see the joy of her own children.
She will never wrap presents, decorate her house, write cards, and roast chesnuts on an open fire.
And she will never find out that Santa Claus doesn't exist.

A Tumbleweed Christmas

I'm going to bed Mrs No-One
So you'd best find Mr No-One soon
Cause Christmas is just a day away,
And summer's in the past.

I said "Christmasses in the past
That we can see".
I'm going to bed Mrs No-One -
You'd better find your no-one fast.

Make Me Gold

Make me gold,
And turn me into coins,
And let me pass through
Pockets, sewers and drains,
Until your face washes away.

The Authentic Cowboys

We are the authentic cowboys,
And we go robbing banks with proper guns in tow.
And our lassoes are used to snare the girls
Who leer when "Two Guns Tom" gets near.
We are the authentic cowboys,
And we go leaving love on railway tracks.
And use our sneers to snare the bad guys
We are the authentic cowboys.
We really wouldn't rip you off -
We're made of better stuff.
We are the authentic cowboys,
No mule's a gonna stand in our way.
Take a dime and take it back
And ride along your way.
We are the authentic cowboys
Whatever the naysayers say.
We take our gals to burlesque bars
And lay these cards seven nights a week.
And take our hides to the Sheriff's place
And shoot him in the face.
We are The Authentic Cowboys,
We're great at everything.
We're The Authentic Cowboys -
Not the real thing.

Between Breaths

We all live by the last breath -
We long for each to reach the next.
And in between, we remember
times where paper aeroplanes
flew out to space,
(or some such stupid things
we long for when our world caves in).
Or else shut down the burden
Weighing heavy with what lies ahead.

Skies Are Blue

Everything's sad,
and nothing's all that bad.
I'll have sad dreams when I'm smiling.
Rome is dying,
the world is crying.
I'll have to beg to find you now.
You're a shroud I can't discover;
A mind I can't recover.
Everything's bad,
and everything's bad.
But the words made sense
onceuponabind.
But now they barely rhyme.
Everything's sad,
and nothing's not so bad.
And the world is crying,
and your Rome is dying.
You'll have to find yourself,
lest you beg in your sleep,
Skies are blue.

You Are My Head

You are my head
You are my bed.
You are my grave
You are my slave.

You are my genes
You are my means.
You are my ears
You are my fears.

You are my eyes.
You are my cries.
You are my coast
You are my ghost.

You are my death
You are my breath.
You are my jeers
You are my tears.

You are my spies
You are my lies.
You are my dread
You are my head.

A Splash In Your Eye

Another masterpiece
flies off the lilypad
and splashes your kid sister
in her eye.

Maybe profound statements,
Belong in the archives,
Possibly feelings
can last a longer lifetime?

Another masterpiece
flies off the silly pads
you put your face on with -
A splash in your eye.

Canasono Besprela

Negelo belofi, berresa.
Doem Filero.
Il a Doem Filero.

Convalo, magrapoli is agraphol.
Is agraphol, Il magra.
Il magra a magras!

Negelo belofi, berresa.
Il caramanda - il, caramanda.

Convalo, rulimentra,
a baleri, rulimentra.
A carase Doem Filero.
A carese Doem Filero!

Adoranota Doem Filero.

Negelo belofi, berresa.

Il caramanda - il, caramanda.
Un bultero o bulero.

Doem Filero...
Doem Filero...

Ulatra besprela, il se
Canasona Besprela.

"Doem Filero! Doem Filero!
A grivelaro!
Filero, Filero!"
Non!
Non!
Non!"

Negelo belofi, berresa.
Negelo belofi, berresa
Doem Filero.

Ulatra besprela, il se
Canasona Besprela.

Moonsequiter

And Beethoven's rained on
As he moves to the shelter,
Where deaf people
go to sleep.

Where dead people sleep.
Beethoven's reign's on
the shelter.
We can't hear you.

Old Times

Young times only tend to fade,
Reality will let them in.

But what if time's a static thing,
We live around and move within
To make some sense of nothing?

Old times only tend to fade,
Reality will float within.

But what if time's a static thing,
We live around and move within
To make our sense of nothing?

The Price of Decorations

Jingle Bells
Festive Hell.
Thoughtless treats and sickly eats,
Pickled brain cells and free range meats.
Buying love for another year and pretending for a holly jolly moment that it will dissipate the tears.
Decorating your halls with stolen Holly, pissing away a months worth of work in the trolley.
The glint in a child's eye burning to a cinder with the cry of no batteries included.
Manufacturers manufacture the idyllic yuletide fantasy, a snowy fraud so blatant it eclipses the winter of nature.
Angels atop pretend trees look down upon cracked crackers and Christmas dinner beatings, crying over baubles and drowning tinsel.
Santa Claus sells out, story land cottages and the smell of fresh snow replaced by stockholder Reindeer and corporate Elves.
The agony of Family diluted by Xmas alcoholism and televisual embolisms.
Religious significance and Nature's magnificence left in the back room with the children and animals.
And then it is over, another years permitted indulgence and we return to the dawn of a new year wondering whether we will last to enjoy that next Christmas cheer.

You Are Tumbleweed Memories

You Are Tumbleweed Memories,
And these are my words to you:

Snow falls by windows
Into whirlpools
To disappear.
But you are Tumbleweed Memories
And you are still here.

Christmas Is Coming

Bollocks