Picnic by Jimmy Boom Semtex
One Way
They're like
bomber planes over Germany. 2 went out and only 1 came back. It's in little pieces in Germany.
Does that mean it's now more than one? I think it does. One thousand pieces of bomber
plane. Thank you Herr Hitler.
Now those
words mean so much... You can only (legally in most countries) have one wife;
only one life; only one original draft of a novel/poem... So a big THANK YOU to HITLER.
You're saying means so much to me. You INSPIRE me no end to dream of dropping more bombs on you and your
kin...
Can't Get A Girl
His name was Johnny. He looked like any other
teenager of his generation. Hair longer than the norm, a bit of acne, favourite
band t-shirts and a love of beer. He didn't smoke, do drugs or fight.
But he liked speed and drove his cheap second
hand cars fast. Too fast, so there were numerous crashes. Like a phoenix,
Johnny emerged unscathed and thought he was invulnerable and bought another
banger.
There had been only one girlfriend during his
teen years. She was a skinny girl called Dawn. They only kissed and never had
sex. Years later he learnt she was gay. Was he the reason? He did wonder.
In the years before her, Johnny was forced to
experiment. He could only get a thrill with his mates. They tossed one another
off while hiding behind the garages. It sure felt good but not like a girl
doing it. And it fucked Johnny's head up.
The bullies always targeted Johnny, from age
4 to 18. So much abuse, unreal pain. He became good with his hands and mind.
But the damage was done. No one was there to help him. Not even his dear mum.
Those were the reasons why he jumped off the
huge bridge into the river. They never found his body, only a note to his mum explaining
why he had to leave. Johnny's forlorn death left a jungle of illusions.
Slanderously Defamatory Libellous
You called me a twat. So now I'm going to sue
you. Take every penny you've got. Bankrupt your arse. I won't let you name call
me for no reason. And I'm not a twat. You'll soon see what I am. A real fucking
cunt!
Mia
The Mia Man was mad. Someone had stolen his
pet dog. This was an automatic credit. He would get even. No matter the time
line. The stolen dog was handsome and intelligent. His name was Peter.
Word went out a white and black dog was
missing. 'Such a body', was the thief. Everybody knew him. Nobody dared move
against him. Only the Mia Man could, should, would. He took his time. It was a
big hangover.
Time to banish the enemy to the moon. The Mia
Man knocked on 'Such a body's' door. Two riot guns, both Winchester and
Remington, got a result. Mia Man pressed both triggers and kneecapped his
enemy.
In seconds it was over. 'Such a body' was
bundled into the space cadet capsule and the fuse was lit. The Mia Man upended
the big steel kitchen table and hid. After a minute the rocket launched. Fizz,
boom, whoosh!
'Such a body' was on the way to the moon. The
dog didn't matter; he wasn't real. Peter the dog was made in Taiwan and plastic.
With a fake woof and growl. Mia Man had just eradicated an enemy. Time for a
beer.
Picnic
I eat the mackerel sandwich. It tastes really
yummy. I've put the tomato sauce into a bowl and pour some over the fish and
bread. Any left I dip the sandwich in. It's well nice. You should try it. I
don't like eating the back bone. I've removed this. It's quite big. I wonder
when someone or something eats me, will it be the same way? Removing the sauce
and my back bone? And just eating the meat? When will I be eaten?
House
I see my lady asleep beside me. A figure of tranquillity.
Blue shorts hardly cover her there. A touch. Unsaid thoughts. Keep silent. It
happens. A caress, a kiss, a sigh. Destroy slumber! Onwards for destiny. My
shorts are off, bottom of bed. Her hand on my cock. Inner being molten. I grow.
Her shorts move south. A kiss, a caress, I enter her. Move house. Old house
vacant. New house cosy. I am home.
Tea Bagging
Eat my shorts. Lick my balls. Suck my cock.
Finger my arse. Tickle my toes. Massage my back. Hold my hand. Kiss my lips.
Squeeze my heart dry.
Rice Wife
My dear wife. Hurry back to me. Don't catch a
cold. I don't want you ill. Don't work today. The rice can wait a day. Hurry to
me my dear. My love will make you better. Hurry hurry hurry.
In The Head
Of all the things in my head I write about,
some that makes me feel better as a person is doing poems when I feel
stressed/anxious/depressed. A nasty combination.
Sometimes even people close by don't know how
I feel or if they do, how to deal with it. But being a writer has a small
coping strategy - doing a poem on it. Better than any pills or false fix.
Even if the work is dark/abrupt/strong in
topic, it's a creative thing outa almost nothing (negative mental states).
And if someone sez: 'Oh, you wrote it as I
felt once...' that's good...
The hardest thing is this: confronting your
own fears and then having the guts to write about it and then share it with the
world. As it can be a very nasty world at times. But also understanding too...
I'm Thrilled
I'm thrilled to hear that you got 3 month
inside. You did bird. Do you know how happy I am? I want to shout from the
highest steeple and jump with joy. You did 7+ years of crime: drug dealing,
smoking weed, assault with a bb gun, smashing your mum's house up, nearly
killing her and more.
That was the worst, shoving your mum's head
into the sink. Concussion could of killed her. You dropped out of school so
have no grades. Maybe if you kill someone, you can study inside?
I think your next crime is murder. But who?
Yourself? Not saying my views. Tho 1 less chav will be here, a reign of terror
over. You used to take your mum's cash and spend it on drugs. Then hit her when
there's no heating.
You made the front room your bedroom, ruled
her life with terror. Was told, 'If you lived in a different city, you would be
in jail now." That took a while in coming but finally happened. I'm
thrilled.
Concept
Imagine a cave in which you see yourself.
There are many versions of you there. For example, you having 8 beers, you
reading a book, you doing a drawing, you listening to music, you doing many
things. A dozen versions of you, a hundred, a thousand. All unaware of each
other. They can't talk but can they see each other? Or are they oblivious to
each other? Is this cave real or in your head?
