Opinions, poems & Short-short Stories of Fictional Shite.


the tiredness in my eyes

weighed down by

hypnotic grooves,

distant sounds


unforgotten voices

masked faces

dipped in shade

stirred by cigarette smoke,

glasses half empty, some half full

and the blues man

hunched in his chair

pluckin’ his four string guitar

his foot tappin'

those slow, clear

Mississippi delta blues,

dat teases

my soul

to inspire.


jingle bell,jingle bell,

jingle bell rock

Mrs Claus is on the block

snowin' and blowin'

she's, a bushel of fun

the jingle she's feelin'

up her rec-tum

those elves have only begun...

jingle bell, jingle bell

jingle bell rock,

pokin' and smokin'

she's lickin' their goo

all on jingle bell time

drinkin' wine

while Santa's away

feelin' fine

all on Christamas day.

The Story Teller

tell me a story
old man


your ancestors
and their clan,

fighting fools
that died like men,


without fathers,
mothers in grief

mourn the madness
of their husband's battles,

with spears and clubs
to brake soldiers' bones,

old man

tell me that story
and I'll leave you alone.

By Dp

Echoes That Whisper

Heard it again

no one yelled,



voices jaded whispers

that try the mind



laughter [cynical], 

 inclination of sorts




not fantasies,



that sound

one has to thwart.


My mind's been blank

I have put up a barrier

between thoughts and my existence.

Trying to crawl out

of this desolate grave of depression

where there is no feeling no purpose

that stage where 'I can't be bothered'.

Yet only last night, a man

falls to his death on the pavement

outside the lounge window

that sickening dull thud

only a human can make;

that distinctive sound,

he was the fourth one I've heard

unlike the others, he yelled not screamed

I can still hear and see him

lying there in the dark

now part of the dark.

Once again I've gone blank.

By Prince L.

Psych Ward Part I

The coffee looks as confusing

as the images in my head,

contorted light-

the sound of silence is deafening

a rage, pathetic anger

desperately retaliates;

it wants repubution.

My thoughts like a mine field

that disfigures only.

People make judgemnet

from the scent of their eyes alone,

I know what its like 

with no one here.

By Prince Labiel

Psych Ward Part II

On the otherside of the window

where reality lays

leaves me behind,

the empty carpark

weathered parking lines

on stone chip tar;

scares of a past

that has no meaning.

That sense of being judged,

looked down upon

not by a god,

but humankind.

The clock on the wall


reminence of making love

her moans, her touch, her sweat

a whole hour

from the table to the bedroom

it has no meaning.

Head spins

yesterday's smell


I hear no voices

just the movement of the 

hand, the second-hand

of the clock.

It too has no meaning.

By Prince Labiel

The Homeless One
the energy is pure as the rain falls upon my head
my hair saturated
cleansed in the city
while sleeping in a tunnel
of matresses made up of old cardboard;
lucky enough one can get foam.

four jackets and a blanket weathered
with tales of faded dreams and hope,
entwined in each stitch.
pigeons coo above the darken track of rustic rail
every now and then looking down on me
weary of my presence
as they argue amongst themselves,
the sound of their wings hitting each other in disgust.

the winter chill echoes through this ancient
public througherfare
that during the day is packed with human feet
off to work, off to uni to study
they look awarkwardly down at the ground
of my makeshift bed; disgusted they are.

beware friends it could happen to you.

By Prince Labiel

he sits in the dark wondering what to write
nothing comes

a storyline, a theme, an idea
nothing comes

panic has set in, sweat on a miserable autumn's night
how many cigarettes has he rolled

inhaled, exhaled

the whisp of smoke that curls about the room
nothing comes

he wishes to be in her backyard

but he is not and still
nothing comes.

By Prince Labiel

I saw a coffin float on by
down the endless street
three metres of the ground

this fuk'n box
of rotting flesh
and a black rose;
the only thing
that wouldn't die

it had been in the ground
for sometime
could see the splinters
filled with mould
the creaks and groans
as it floated by

stained mucus
finger marks
on the inside
of the open peeled lid

a putrid smell
of something wrong
even the maggots too;
now long gone

as that coffin floated by
I saw the face
a face I did recognise

I didn't laugh
didn't cry
just looked up
into the cold winter sky

And asked,

'how many years has it been since I died?"

By Prince Labiel


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