Crab Apple

The de ja vu of one just like you,

Makes me feel like a dunce; Investment undo!

Repeat my fall, as you point to a future,

In stroking me gently, I let in your nurture.

The mistake I have made again and again,

Never hardens against this ardour of feign.

And then the calls stop; sharp cleavered sever,

Nudging you gently, but left on a tether.

You look for a muse and one to bleed dry,

But the poet is void; in a mortal high.

It trumps up it’s being; is pleased with itself,

Your chaos, eternal, teeters on shelf.

And now I am scorned, there’s nothing worse.

Get out of my head; extol with the verse.

Will I learn of the centric; the shells on the rock?

In opening too soon, I’m left on the dock.

So I’ll be as honest, as I always am,

And declare that these tricks are truly a sham.

I can’t be prey to this convenient affection,

You won’t find me playing pyrite persuasion.

Back from the USSR

Imagine knowing that your forthcoming year was going to be hellish. No surprises; it's there laid out for you to see. An over-hanging sense of dread that creeps into your mind when you're undistracted. Constant almost. Like a mayoral chain fastened from leaded shit; paraded around in a paranoid state.

I knew 2012 was going to be possibly my most difficult year yet since it's incarnation. For legal reasons, yes legal reasons, I am unable to talk about things that happened to me, and then subsequently things that were done to me out of my control. All this occurred during November, since then life has been a collection of uncertainties with my usual focus being completely blurred. It's horrid. I can't see.

...But in the meantime, we battle on, roll with the punches, try to survive, (move to Estonia, move back from Estonia)...take every day as it comes and try to ascertain some form of control when everything - in your reality - is chaos. You feel the world is conspiring against you, and your spine folds with the weight of the heaviest breath.

This year will be hell. So rack up the cheesecake and fuck me senseless.

TBC.

Stinker

The stench of your feet makes me gag as I enter.
The food in your beard, I think it's polenta.
I've never met a man as bogan as you.
You're wearing my socks, and inside, I spew.
And the whiff when I wake is burning my brain,
It flattens my Monday like the Chernobyl rain.
I know my board and beverage is free for the taking,
But this noxious contempt makes me question my faking.
For I'm not you mother, and I don't wipe your arse,
And I'm not your lover, the respect would be sparse.
So get in the shower and scrub yourself with brillo,
Or soon you will wake, your face pushed in pillow.
And please wash away the grime of discontent,
Because I'm giving up pity this Easter for lent.

Spaniel

Like a faithful mutt you follow, sniffing out your fun time treats.
For an impish romantic such as you; galavanting, reciting Keats.
And though your voice is megaphone, aloud and forthright in key,
Just one counter-fact delivered, is enough to sway you to me.

And when my bubble burst, you were there right by my side,
And though your stumps don't hurry, you managed to keep up with the ride.
Driving in your fucked-four-wheels, we galavant as free,
Endlessly searching for answers; you should know, what-will-be-will-be.

For you have the talent and the voice and the charm enough for many,
And you're generosity to the lame, would extract the very last penny.
So regardless of your slight, no matter of the sneak,
You're bigger than the biggest, with an empathy for the weak.

And the bespoke of which you claim, is fabricated to the big.
But those who appreciate Dan-kinetics, don't really give a frig.
For you are loved by many, all sizes and all sorts.
And you're always guaranteed a laugh when Manicolo is in court.

Beloved friend, this is belated, the yesteryear is past..
But I know the loyalty to each other, is always meant to last.
And though I try to silence the thunder that never heeds,
You'll always be my favourite, my ever faithful bead.

Vessel

They arrive on the Thursday and leave by the Sunday,
The regret they feel is obvious come Monday,
For the lies they told were just for the tour,
And I did what I did within the love law.
But the truth it came when once they had departed,
And if she knew, inevitable; broken hearted,
For he touched me like her, and stroked me as his,
And gave me the lines in wanting a kiss.
And I thought, this was nice, a weekend of attention,
You know it's not long term, a temporary intervention.
Then you found out this whole thing was ruse,
But you're not the one, who in this will lose.
And Monday has come, and what's done has been done.
He came with the lads and took you for fun.
So now you must learn that boys they will lie,
But - together - they push in enjoying the high.
So goodbye and god bless I wish you the best,
It's a shame we were party to this fantasy quest.

The bifkinpie has moved to Estonia...

Well what a ride that was.

More information soon.

Stay cerebral!

V x

By John

Once upon a blue moon,
There was a tide that rippled smooth.
The early rain dropped, from the mango trees,
From the mangroves and manatees.
Uluru needed rain that day,
And the puddle became a lake.
The old ones were happy,
For they could write their songs.
From the ochre, the three legged man,
Sounded through the beeswax.
And the young males cried out to the birdsong,
The holy rock of Ayers was a place to fish,
Once more for the days of unity,
Were close at hand for two little boys.

Simon the Lion

I tried so hard to write this,
It took me several times,
It started off about a lion,
But I crossed out all the lines.

So now I start again this verse,
I hope it says what I find hard,
The love that I feel for you big bear,
Is regardless of your mard.

But aside my heart that cries now,
I must fly your cave and go.
An owl; you taught me lessons,
And how all of us can grow.

So Simon, my dear lion,
I'll never forget your words,
Look to the sky my brother,
And I'll be with the birds.

And when I see a pigeon,
I'll always think of you.
And lucky there are plenty,
Fucked up, just like us too.

Silk

I love you, I miss you, I don't want to go,
But I don't know how low this lowest can low.
You picked up my bones, and you stacked them as jenga,
But I live by the cliff, with no return to sender.

You were my silk that appeared with the drop,
You took the wrath; the punches not stop.
The hurt and the fear I must have created;
Eternal shame, an apology belated.

I don't want to go, but you know I will walk,
I'll watch my ideas and eye the big talk.
But I'll cry and I'll miss you my dearest old girl.
I'll always taste ginger; the comfort, the whirl.

Stone Child

I always wanted to be child,
A baby without care,
But now my eyes and mind are battered,
The impact broke its fare.

This bitterness I feel,
Is as tart as fresh citrine,
The vengeance that manifests inside,
Will have to be unseen.

For my shoulders carry such a weight,
Decrepit in their curl,
And the child that is locked inside,
Suffocates within the swirl.

And a child is born unable,
To carry such a burden,
And as the little one grows,
It suppresses all the hurting.

But the cynic now has calloused,
Through the mistrust of such leeches,
Disappeared to find the joy,
Amongst the far off reaches.

All that had been buried,
And placed well in the past,
Has regrown itself anew;
Harboured inside metal cast.

And the old year hurt and upset,
It seeps between the cracks,
And spills its molten poison,
And lands upon the back.

And the jaded one within,
Hardens and turns to stone,
And the child that wants to play outside,
Is now inside, alone.

And the work that she had made,
In wanting to enjoy the ride,
Is crystallised forever,
In weighted brow it hides.

The work begins again,
In learning to love as pure,
But in treading toxic water,
It drowns down to the floor.

Who will be the saviour?
To break the stone to shard,
Because a heart repeatedly blackened,
Is meant to stay so hard?

And the colic that has spawned,
Could poison what it sees,
When the treachery of experience,
Is not worthy of such fees.

So take me back to baby,
And leave me innocent,
To find such peace on earth,
Is only heaven sent.

The Forlorn, The Porn, The Scorn.

But surely this is bullshit?
At night the skin aids sleep,
Finger fucked; a pull, a tug,
...Always ends throat deep.

And the girl she moans like mother,
Her eyes they speak faux lust.
Her lips they must be hurting,
Cursing harder; taking thrust.

For her taut and shaven haven,
Is rogered and all do see,
Her pussy bleached albino,
Displays robotic choreography.

For nothing real exists in it,
It creates a filmic lie.
And the boys that educate themselves,
Will keep a woman dry.

So bring us less four, four, two,
And loosen up the game,
For the girls are not as tight nor taut,
Or dependent on skin fame.

Their tits they do not pivot,
Their cunts are foible, frilled,
They don't demand it perma-hard,
It hurts just being drilled.

So take your cock from wind pipes,
And speak and ask instead,
For this isn't just two minutes,
Fake lashes giving head.

And who are you adonis?
To receive such unbridled favour?
This fucking that you see,
Accounts to no more than slave labour.

So stop the porn formation,
For this isn't what to expect.
If this was the truth,
Two minutes, your spoils would cry regret.

Oooh ahhh I love it, go harder,
Oh yeah, you are the man.
He's pumping - selfish - glory,
Shredding en masse hairless clam.

They all like it rough you 'spose,
With shaven cock and ball.
The belly hangs; the moustache leers,
And on chin, bollocks fall.

This repeat to fade; mechanical joust,
Is a universal scoff,
Cos it takes more than two minutes,
To get most of us off.

And now it's time to finish,
He's ready to shoot his load,
She looks dirty at the camera;
Hopes you've seen her goad.

And the finale is abrupt,
In showing you the prize,
Always on the face,
And sometimes in the eyes.

Then you switch off discontented,
That it had to come to this.
When you knew the script, the sounds, the moves,
Empty, vacant. This.

Now the guilt you feel that such a scam,
Could end up in a sock.
But you retire; uncharmed, used, abused.
This animal; withered cock.

So bring me the director,
And let me fist my fury,
For he thinks of boys and minute cuffs,
As true as morning glory.

Let us unleash the spoils,
And show him his disgrace,
Then reprimand his actions,
By cumming on his face.

Caught-ship

Blimey Charlie, he's quite forward,
For boys these days they're all so starboard,
But this is fresh, this seems anew;
I haven't had this since 2002.

The clubs are dead and full of meat,
Get called a perv chatting up in the street.
Moving in packs and losing charm,
Thinking catcalls don't cause no harm.

But shut your mouth your whistles mean nowt.
Where's the numbers? Still in doubt?
A man who takes charge and takes the lead;
Is a boy who knows that some girls heed.

It's simple, a gamble, you just need to chance,
To ignite a flame a man, solo, starts a dance.
Some say this fashion is way too old,
But bravery, courage, assertion; we're sold.

So take charge of your situation,
You're wasting time; this hesitation.
As time can pass by - it's gone, it's quick.
You missed it man, you've been a dick.

Don't be shy, show the world your balls.
And then - perhaps - she'll await your calls.
Rejection? Pfft so what? Now you know...
It wasn't right. There's not an epic show.

Swallow that pride and make your move,
You really do have nowt to lose.
So, why did you get off the saddle?
And why is it so hard to have a dabble?

It's you and ego at war with self,
Years go by... you're on the shelf.
And now those around you are all hooked up,
It's down to you, not a question of bad luck.

For girls just want a Daddy to search for,
Like-wise someone to be there for nurture.
It's not Freudian this slip of mine,
It's honest, it's true, it's beautifully fine.

So move to the port of fresh new hope,
Start it slowly, it might elope.
But put some wheels underneath your station.
Your frozen state isn't worth your dedication.

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'.