Forever 17

Eyes Of Blue

Merry Fucking Christmas

Mollie's on the run
But she's done very little she considers wrong
She's got a suitcase and a gun
She's on her way
She needs no guardian angel
'cos she's a killer; strong and stable
As she struts into the sun
She's on her way

The victims' similarities 
Were their collective lack of clarity
Repugnant hearts and a lust 
Left so untamed it made them blind
Whether spiked or choked
These fetid blokes
Will never again cause untold pain
Caught red-handed, alone and stranded
Mollie made them pay

One or two would cotton on
Pick up and run from the things they've done
But Mollie would not give up
With her sights set on the prize
As they drew their last breath
Her pretty eyes would wink and smile
At their surprise
And all that's left is the smell of putrid perfume 
And of death

But one day Mollie fell in love (oh no...)
An Earthly angel, she met her gaze
From across the bar
Playing an old guitar
A song about something or nothing in particular
But what can I say
It didn't go Mollie's way
The songstress apprehended her
"We've got our girl! You murderer!"

"Mollie, oh Mollie. Why don't you weep and say you're sorry?
Then God, He may forgive you
For the path that you have laid
But now you'll rot away in your cell or day
Full of vengeance, grief and such dismay
Remembering those who suffered
From your dark and twisted ways"

Well, these words they did not penetrate
Mollie sat there so sedate
Though her actions weren't accepted
Regret was never felt
Late that night, she felt at ease
With thoughts of men brought to their knees 
A certain satisfaction
She finally felt complete

Mollie's days are done
She did very little she considered wrong
But she had some fucking fun
Along the way
Now her days are done and dusted
She's shown who can't be trusted
She rests her pretty eyes
And laughs away

Mollie's on the Run

C'est Tragique!

Not a Cloud

Late Night Bitter Poem

Build A Coffin For Me

She Has A Way

Worm Food

What’s a boy to do with a phantom such as you?
Smothered in your smoky haze

Hysterical and wild. You’re truly Satan's child
An apparition formed by grace

Oh, I get high, high, high
When I see you floating by
Oh I get high, high, high
Through the rooftops we will fly
Oh, I get high high high

What’s a ghost to do for a man without a clue?
Caught up in your senseless chase

Delusional boy-child. A spectre you defiled 
Astride between your hope and fate

Oh, I get high, high, high
Then I hang my head and cry
Oh I get high, high, high
I’m not the interventionist type
Oh, I get high high high

So forthright, In hindsight
I’d go as low as one can go
My eyes glued, just to you
The only weakness I can show

Knock once more on death’s door
And you shall reap just what you sow
I promise, I’ll lead the tributes. 

I’ll play you all and I play to win
I’ll score your end with a violin
Feed the worms, return to Earth
Untimely end, so well deserved

WORMFOOD

Preparing the Pipes

A moistened mattress
From a fever dream
Unbridled panic
You dirty drama queen

A blood red sunrise
Reflects off an old guitar
You can run all you want to
But you won't get far

A tortured poet
Creative cocaine fiend
Runs his yellow’d fingers
Through 90’s magazines

His tinted glasses hide
An absent gaze
No sense in rushing
He’ll be fucked for days

Prepare the pipes and we’ll be fine
Numb in body and numb in mind
In your mind. In your mind
Prepare the pipes and we’ll be fine
Numb in body and numb in mind
In your mind. In your mind


Finely balanced
By a spoiled surprise
No, she can’t be trusted
Shifty angel eyes

A back street banger
Or a future queen
Of those dirtied masses
The washed but never clean

The eyes are rolling
As you rot inside
I can't console you
But I'm by your side

You never listened
To your own advice
If it nearly kills ya
Don't try it twice

You're chemically owned
Can't sit up on your own
Can barely raise your head

You're a sucker for the pipe
At least you were tonight

Prepare the pipes (Prepare the pipes)
Turn out the lights (Turn on the lights)
Just for tonight, we'll court disaster

Cracked teeth, wild eyes
Glass filled thick lines
Missing daylight
Nowhere to hide

Prepare The Pipes

Avoiding the realities of life by writing a pointless poem doused in self-pity
Translucent bottles parade the shelves. Drained, standing side-by-side
Their tacky bottoms are now far too cliché to be considered profound
Reluctantly, you stare from above at the often-viewed bird’s-eye penis
Undoubtedly, the saddest angle imaginable, though certainly not the scariest
Wondering whether it will soon be consigned to the history books
Along with the strained six-pack, a remanence of sex appeal, and a full head of hair.

Reminiscing of heady and carefree days when hangovers were a bearable affliction 
And night time bedroom-based rigidity was all but assured
Bags under reddened eyes were considered a temporary phenomenon
Existential anxiety has now well-and-truly burrowed into the holes vacated 
By football, punk-rock and an undeserved feeling of self-assurance
Important memories fade with the continued flowing of time and whisky
And are replaced with an unwelcome, heavily filtered, yet still hurtful, nostalgia.

Whitened hair now sprouts in incorrect, and increasingly unreachable, places
Patience has grown as thin as the joke that now covers my irritable scalp
Weighing up the vice by calorie-counting the alcohol that’s slowly destroying me
The bathroom scales are to be feared and the mirror best avoided if possible
He’ll inevitably only scowl and grunt back at you for what you’ve let him become
But remember without that view from above, it might become obligatory
It’s a sad day when the bird’s eye penis angle is no longer a viable option. 

Appreciate the sight while you still can.

Bert

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