Panning for Mirth

The laughs that I love have moved out of town,
It seems that things have been dragging it down.
The smile I once had, has failed to appear,
The eggshells friends walk on, placated with fear.
For what I had grown has gone in a flash,
My humour, the tumour, malign since the crash.

You're trying so hard to pretend it's all fine,
But it's all turned to vapour, these dreams of mine.
The goals that were posted have now been destroyed.
Put one past me, my defence is devoid.
Now I step back and scrabble in earth,
Keeping me desperate: I can't find the mirth.

This colour inside is greying and ill,
No focus at all, now, should I take the pill?
It was all going so well, in line for success,
Then they dropped the bomb; Stupid! Careless!
So choose new options ones that align,
But I didn't have a back up, for this feckless crime.

You knew where it was going, you were working hard,
But they dodge your gaze for you're no longer the card.
And now it's all blurred - a kaleidoscope of bland.
Your drive is in neutral; seated, not stand.
For the courage you had in being scrutinised,
Is now so fragile; scared, cowers and hides.

When everything you work for is what helps you breathe,
But it's taken in one note, from the unwitting thief.
And then it was smashed; it's broke, it's gone.
How long will this take before you move on?
Now it feels like the love of your life will not return,
For you pile your moon and stars and place them in urn.

Toilet

I hope you choke, you big fat fuck,
Your boarded up windows devoid of luck.
The death that reeks out of your door,
Invites lost souls who want to score.
The exit it doesn't even lock;
Kick it, hard, no need to knock.
I'd daub your boarded panes with red,
If it meant they'd swoop and take you dead.

A wretched whore comes for fix,
Add his girl and dog in the mix.
In daytime you see his fists punch out,
His screams and incoherent spouts.
You deserve nothing you poor lost scourge,
You are gone, your venom is real; an empty purge.

But it is not the one that beats his friends,
It's the one who helps you meet your end.


For the big fat fuck, he never leaves,
The girls visit, ensemble, a sweaty heave.
They sell your wares like sweets to all,
If I were brave, I'd make the call.
But they must know you're here dishing horse,
For my community continues in discourse.

And the poor old man who's next to you,
His windows smashed for what you do.


The man lives in fear; alone, afraid.
Is it worth it for what you've made?
Your mother is proud of what you've built?
If I were her, in your mouth, barrel to hilt.
For what you do you poison and taint...
But, Lucifer is waiting for the greedy saint.
So, open wide and take too much.
I hope you choke, you big fat fuck.

Judging The PulizterShit, Sir.

You think I'm intense? You should meet my radiator. 

Bikfinpie does not condone the manhandling of anyone, especially whilst your arse is hanging out.

Being a strong woman - almost 6ft tall - who is able to lift a man, can have its pitfalls. Occasionally I get referred to as "mate" in shops when people don't pay attention, but then I imagine Francis Rossi has the same problem in reverse.

When I say strong, this is of course massively subjective, I mean, not many girls are going to describe themselves as weak, unless they're pitching for a man who likes a needy woman. Or perhaps a weak woman would like an equally weak man so that they can lettuce around being wet and meek. After all perhaps some do have an agenda to inherit the earth? Quite how that happens being submissive is anybody's guess. I imagine they don't step up to much.

Note, I said strong, not tear-you-a-new-arsehole Bitch from Brigadoon - though she sounds awesome! Yeah I think I'm pretty strong, or stubborn or stoic, but I'm also pretty gentle, sensitive, quite passive and generous. After all, I infamously coined the term 'Gentle Jesusing' as a verb.

When I perform as a 'Bitch from Brigadoon' - let's call her - it can shirk any interest in you when those eyeing up your wares believe you to be exactly like your persona. I recently encountered this first hand when someone - who had initially demonstrated romantic interest in me (I say romantic, he wanted to get all pumpetty on me) but following two relatively, lengthy, 'normal', quite amusing 'off stage' conversations that seemingly went quite well, hence the attempted pumpetty pillage) I was taken aback when he described me, rather nastily, as scary. Now yes, I am rather an intense personality, and yes, I do operate in a rather dominating stance whilst performing, because you have to use what you've got and control a room, but NO, I am not like I am on stage. Between four walls I'm very different. It's a shame he never got to find out, but at least I managed to halt it before he got wriggly between my iron thighs of Brigadoom.

A further example of misjudging those on plinths:- Jack Dee is the most irritating optimist I have ever met, you can't wipe the smile off his doughy, moist face, and the polar example being Professional Christian Aled Jones, who is a notorious arsewang (actually he's not, he made a gag about anal sex to me in a lift once,  it was quite funny bearing in mind it came from Aled Jones' mouth), but you catch my drift. In fact both examples are total falsehoods, (and though the lift story was true, it just didn't happen to with me in said lift).

People make assumptions as to who you are when we all have exteriors and fronts just to battle through life. But if no one is willing to invest the time and energy to see beyond that, and we're not able to ever let our guards down, then we're screwed. When you present yourself publicly for performance you are open to judgement. A case in point being most goths are lovely (obviously they'd hate me saying that, but they generally hate everything), they just don't want to deal with shit from Norman's and hope their appearance might automatically tell the Magnolia's to keep-the-fuck-away. Same with meat heads, except there's a little too much time spent in the mirror and most of them have small penises - but that's the illusion of the meat stack. More often than not, their stout stature couldn't even guarantee an effective upper cut due to the excessive friction against their barrel chests and the subsequent dangers of spontaneous combustion.

It takes time to get to know someone. A whole lifetime. And it's not nature, it's definitely how you nurture. Until you get us out of our masks and clobber we are ALL illusions, especially as 'personalities'. David Copperfield's tan is testament to that. And even David needs love.

The D Train

I tried to catch the D train, but it seems to have stopped.

I tried many times, but the service has dropped.

The timetable - when it comes - it comes sporadically,

But I receive no notice, it seems to stop me.

For no reason it has in postponing the trip,

But self-service demands it, in riding the dip.

A brief encounter is what I am to expect,

When I felt that I missed it with total regret.

For the D train it travelled just like hi-speed bullet,

But my empathy came and I just couldn't dull it.

A visual memory, I arrived at the station,

The D Train was nowhere near destination.

But National Rail called and they told me to cease,

But the D train didn't appear to have had much peace.

For it stayed in the shed, unloved and uncherished,

It stayed in the shed no award, past-embellished.

One day I hope they will call me to say,

Jump onboard the D Train, today is the day.

A legal high

For those in pain and it will not surrender,
You try other options to avoid the street sender.
For when it comes, it comes without timing,
And the horror you feel is increasing and climbing.
You wish that you could put a gun to your head,
Rather than feel pain, it'd be better to be dead.
And who would have thought something simple as this,
Would lead to a mess, a stigma; a diss.
When the pain, it was double, the only relief,
Was to get on the stage and act the big chief.
So now look at the mess that this whole thing has caused,
Your body an existential mess on the floor.
You stay in your bed and you try not to weep,
You wished that it was a permanent sleep.
For nobody likes a moaner, you see,
You rock up for laughs and the weekend party.
But the pain that you felt, was the bear with sore head.
How can something like this make you want to be dead?
And when it was taken a euphoria came,
But nobody wants to know what you can blame.
And so investigatory work it now must continue,
To find the answer is natural, it's something within you.
But the pros in this field, they don't have a clue,
For they study their books and don't live as you do.
So you wait and you wait, treading water-like mud,
And the help that has come, couldn't but should.
And things have spiralled out of all control,
You stumble to walk like the clownish young fowl,
But the strength you have, you must again try and muster,
When you're tired of the fight, and the professional fluster.
So the answer is out there, one day it will come,
But for now, you drop out; what's done has been done.
Now you hide your head in shame and you cry,
The pain has gone, but you still want to die.

Rubbernecking...

Dang, you missed it...now move along, there's nothing to see here...

Bifkin Trafficking

Much like the average person, I like an odd search of the internet now and again; when I'm alone, in need of research, bored and trying to avoid looking at the same clip of pornography over and over again, but it may be worth noting that many people visit the bifkinpie in search of some horrifying things. Things that would make you want to become a Vicar (in addition to the boon of getting a nice free big house, an endless supply of biscuits, and all the lavender scented gilf you could handle).

And so over the past 6 months searches to arrive in the pie, include:

'All animals being silly', the tamest of the searches. Firstly let me address those people - I don't want you people here. You idle away your life looking at cats doing something moderately amusing. Go on, sod off and be useful. At least film a small child eating a lemon for the first time...now that's funny. Cats incidentally won't eat lemons. If they did, Lisa Riley might still have career (a minutes silence, please).

'Tattoo on teeth' - as I discovered this is an actual procedure you can get done. It's not even a tattoo, it's a stencil. Some bloke had Kate and Wills done on his teeth for their wedding. Fortunately like the fixation with Pippa's arse, it's not permanent (stop thinking of her arse). I imagine many will now rush out now to  get something natty done to secure a record deal for their closeted suburban grime act 'Bruvvasundercovers'.

'Dominatrix with a pie in the face' - that kind of defeats the object you filthy worm, now lick my shitty wellies! A dominatrix would never let you put a pie in her face. NEVER! Unless of course the attacker was taped up in a bin bag with a singular arm hole with which to fire said pie. That might be fun.

'Shave the Baby' - Yes you can shave a baby, you can buy a hairy doll that you shave, and it's a ginger baby, with hairy ankles (see post: 'Kicking it with the kids'). Quite why you'd want to 'Shave the baby' is anybodies guess. But at least it's not an actual baby you want to shave, unless you're rearing your own 5-a-side bunch of neo-nazi's and are looking for tips (Tip #1: try not being racist).

And finally, 'Diarrhea on face'. This search is clearly for scat fans who prefer it loose. May I recommend that you don't drop your poorly guts onto someone's face. They may die. Perhaps try mocking the act by using 'Cow & Gate' Autumn Vegetables range - it's almost the same, with a tad more parsnip and less E-coli.

And so over the next few months I look forward to many people dropping into the site to be massively disappointed by the nonevent of their searches.

Now you must excuse me, I've got to find pictures of dogs in lingerie. It's for a thing.

Punch Drunk Punk

That gap I could fill with a boot to the face,
Your self-concerned arrogance remaining in place,
Your syrupy words try to grab at my strings,
But you can't even see your deceitful weak stings.

Remember when this...? Remember but why?
Don't even bother, it's not worth a try.
When we slept as terrace in seaside states,
I thought you were it; my finest of mates.

But time muscled on, and jealousy destroyed,
The big one hi-jinx; my playtime with boys.
The vintage has blurred any speckle of care,
And the laughs that once were, were just left right there.

Remember the powder party; hi-fliers galore?

I spoke with the addled and saw rotting core.

One such child had spoke at me for hours, 

Yet my manners intact, my impatience had cowered. 

Now you may like a dram(a), you may want a shot,

But I haven't the time, not even a jot.

As heads disappear and invert up backsides.

I hope you've enjoyed all of our rides.

You think that I'm stupid, that you can take the piss,
If I could see you now, that gap would meet weegie kiss,
I hope your quaffing chaps see you for who you are,
A secretive, charming continental with a peanut - har de har.

The phone will ring out, so don't try and dial,
As judge and jury, there's no option for trial.
So remember - with fondness - all the fun we had shared,
But that was yesterday when perhaps you had cared.

So next time you want to rinse someone of knowledge,

Remember 'the small talk' that came at the college.

I was doing well, just fine, thanks for asking.

I'm sorry if you thought extra words would be taxing.

The inuit is focused on catching his fish,
And feeding his face with his premium dish,

So shove your mer medley where the sun won't shine,

You were, are no longer, a good friend of mine.

Good luck Francois, now I bid you Salut,
So now you can focus on you and you too.
Don't be considered, for one moment that I am bitter,
I'll drink a smokey note, and think of the 'big hitter'.

Muttering Uttering Nuttering

The guy on the bus, he went fuckin mental,
We'd only just left Manchester Central.
Stopping the 85, driver disabled.
Impatience from all sides enabled.
WHERE AM I? His voice projected,
Near Moss Side - he's disconnected.
I grabbed my chain, observed right in,
Regardless of the crack coke sin.
For his body screams the sign is vacant,
The abuse has left him, screaming latent.
For some just think 'What a nutter'.
The addled mouth in faux filth mutter.
Screaming at a woman, "ARE YOU BLIND?"
He didn't mean to be unkind.
Her shades suggest she couldn't see,
She shrugged in the face of uncertainty.
And finally he found his stop,
Driver frustrated; at last the drop.
A one fingered salute was how they departed,
For the young shop girl had bravely started...
Her voice was calm; she spoke like lamb,
And touched him soft, unlike the gram.
For she had been the one true hero,
When others would have met with zero.

Chittering Shat

What lame arsed line did you just say?

To try and catch me for seedy play?

"Do you think he'll spin some Jagger and Keef'?"

He did, just then, you dribblin queef.

I know you think I'm easy game,

I've seen so much, I'm tried of the same.

To talk to girls in bars is cheap,

Come on man, you're just a creep.

Your breath it smells of desperation,

The beef? I'm guessing perspiration.

But I 'spose you have some kind of balls,

To rally lines and hope they'll fall.

But back up fella, this girl is taken,

Even in fiction my boyfriend fakin',

It's a shame your eyes are blurred with ale,

As this is obviously a fucking fail. 

So piss off will ya' and give me a break,

I only came here to move and shake.

Why not try the girl to my left,

She's drunk so much, dignity bereft.

That whiff of vomit in her lap,

Her fella left her, with water on tap. 

If you're looking for some easy meat, 

Then sit in the gutter, it's in the street.

Or go and find some sweaty sauce,

I'm talking Shish Kebab of course.

So let this be a lesson to all triers,

A girl with respect doesn't need a buyer,

For closed bids only is what I'm after,

And most of all bring me the laughter.

Douillet Tété (a Tété)

The blackbird it screams bullshit,

It's black eye as wide as hell,

Gnawing on meaty bones,

No stories he had to tell.

This cloud of thick vagueness,

It stutters foggy dense,

And that catholic guilt, you spoke of,

In this new age, is past tense.

So open your beautiful blue eyes,

And see the cronies in the midst,

As they're the ones who are dining,

You can see them, dribbling, pissed.

Do you know who you are now?

Can you see what they do?

For those friends that surround,

Don't want you for you.

So keep your royalty,

To lavish on those you crown,

As the ones that kiss your arse,

Are the ones dragging you down.

You're funny, and shy and silly,

And it's all stuffed in nice and tight.

For you're the boss my friend,

Keep it real, boy, keep it in sight.

So return to when you were extra;

Alone, real and pure, 

For that was when the melody,

Lacked the obvious formulaic score.

Listen to your heart, 

As that will speak in honesty,

You don't need borrowed middle eight,

Secure; your admirable modesty.

I hope it works out for you, 

I truly am an admirer.

But watch yourself, illustrated, 

And avoid the twisted that expire. 

Judah's Preach

You gave her a kiss, but you bit off her head,
Anything that could've happened, is instantly dead.
Now she's floating, suspended, thinking 'what if...',
When a small bit-of-banter became an overblown tiff,
You feared that she'd write about you and your ways,
Yet, you don't know of subversion, and the way that it sways.

She wishes you weren't you - you were somebody else,
And that your self-interest, hadn't left you on the shelf,
Whoever hurt you, whoever shut you down,
It's completely irrational, the Judah-in-crown,
But you hide away, mournful, licking your paws,
And you've unwittingly closed all of those doors.

Your prey wanders free, and prospers content,
When you got it all wrong, you didn't know what she meant.
Now you think in your cage you have a problem of sorts,
When she closed the door on lovers-in-court.
But time rolls by, the moment has passed,
It's a shame you missed out on that great piece of ass.

So you want to know how I'm doing?

I'm just super...anyone else want to take a shot? 

images courtesy of Lauren Kay Davies

Marked

I am not crying for me, I am crying as I cannot help Marked,
He paces endlessly like a caged animal - because that's what he is.
We are animals.

He spoke to me for the first time today, he asked me to protect him,
And right now I can't. I am helpless. Because I am a caged animal too!

These tears are for you.

17.11.11.

The Sickest Kick

Where were you when we got sick?
Working 9 to 5, busy in smoke, thick.
Your S.H. lacks any service or health;
You're far too busy counting up your wealth;
Your cars, your frocks, your deco garnet rings,
Enveloped in power with fraudulence it brings.
Speaking to ones whom mouths tell no truth,
Your silence projects no form of couth.
Your lies, your words, they don't mean shit.
Where were you when we got sick?
You could have rang, you could have spoke,
Yet you remained gagged and made me choke.
My hurt is infinite; awash with anger,
Yet the days passed, and I waited longer.
The call - when it came - was dripping in fable
And you're the one calling me unstable?
So treat your patience as I'd expect;
Lacking concern, but now regret.
Who has felt the strongest kick?
Where were you when we got sick?

Satellite

Do you know just how important you are?

For tolerance and acceptance from those afar.

Your face is always a pleasure to see,

You are the glue; essential to society.

Some people they may ridicule,

But ignorant fuckers are so cruel.

WE love those questions, and that banter,

As you visit the spots, a weebling canter. 

I miss your face when you disappear, 

But it won't be long till you reappear.

For I get it, I do, I totally understand,

You're anxious, that's fine, showing hand.

Once I tried to hug too much,

You then recoiled, unable to touch.

Though I knew it wasn't only me,

It's one of those things I didn't see.

But don't be shy, let's see those moves,

And ease up on Arabian blues.

For it will work out for them, you'll see,

Revolution and greed will be the key;

Uprising? Gas it will decline.

It'll work out man, it's going to be fine.

Oh dearest Pat, you make me smile,

Walking your beloved Golden Mile.

For you are truly loved by those who know,

When you're around, we know there's a show.

Bird of Rosacea

The milk we knew was sour,
It was never even sipped.
Rosacea; cracked and dour;
Baby bird mouthed; needy lipped.
You gave the bird no option,
To do it by themselves,
For support had had no gumption,
In helping you help yourself.

As the tiny baby bird grew;
Shy, awkward, misunderstood,
Her youthful wings were clipped,
By the sick, progressed through mud.
They flew and left the nest,
To escape the fat cuckoo,
The birdsong mute at best.
Unanswered, what to do?

But the little chick had grown,
Into the one you see,
When she flew the sickened home,
Unsupported; what would be?
Whatever was slung and thrown;
It fell from tattered plume.
So do you see that had grown?
Beyond the sick catacomb.

She dances and sings sweet freedom,
And laughs and loves with heart.
Her escape had found the Kingdom,
Against the guns; poisoned dart.
For the bird still flies alone and free,
And will not be stopped nor crossed,
The wings extend long, you see,
The Bird of Rosa - Albatross.