Tag Archives: mean-spirited

Shankicide: Shivving with Death Poetry

by

0

Shankanalia10When does artistic expression become threatening? Presumably it’s as soon as we don’t like it. The most exciting response a person can have to art is when they feel it is about themselves. That doesn’t mean it is about them of course, they just think it is. Does that belief mean anything? Inasmuch as we hope to affect others with our art, whatever form it takes, then yeah I suppose that belief does mean something.

I’d be excited if someone read these poems and thought “gosh, I’m such a burden on the emotions and actions of others that yes, this exactly describes how I must make others feel”. Then they would be better people than I’d usually give them credit for.

Follow @shankanalia on Twitter for daily suffering.

Shankanalia - Shankicide: Shivving with Death Poetry

Alpha Cube
You make me want to kill things,
Hunt you through the woods
Or cubicle maze.
Pursue you with knives and rulers,
Measure you out,
Cut you down.

The Time Traveller’s Spite
Imagine how you could undo the past
By travelling through time:
Find your father,
Say hi,
Kill him before he inseminates
Your mum with his fate.

Effervescent with Emotional Bubbles
I see you struggle with control,
The passion bursting from your seams.
Just remember what we did to Jesus:
Nailed him to a fucking cross.
Contain yourself.

Diseases of The Mind
Just ‘cos you’re a fucking prick
Don’t imagine you’ll make me care
Beyond the irritation that you cause
With your gangrenous management infection

Not A Blame Culture
A problem shared
Is a problem doubled.
Double or nothing.
Do you want my half?
Swap?
Oh, they’re the same.
Stupid game,
Let’s just blame.

Your Shoes Don’t Fit
Fuck you-
Your thoughts,
Your feelings;
You hurt mine.
Lying
Evil
Cunt.
If I had your skin to wear
I’d burn it.
Don’t care how you feel:
Fuck you.

With Us, It’s Personal
Don’t send me worthless shit.
Hacked?
Boo hoo,
Face-sadness.
Fix your password,
Get a life.
Do they sell knives?
Buy one;
Bury it in you.

Related poetrical ramblings

Shankata – Layers of Hatred Accrued Poetically

by

0

Shankanalia9I haven’t read these poems for a little while, and I’ve thankfully forgotten exactly what inspired them. They are a little more personal than my usual spilling of bile. That doesn’t necessarily make any difference of course. As far as I recall from studying poetry at school you can read whatever you like into them and that has equal validity with the artist’s intentions (obviously I jest in referring to myself as an artist!) That never made sense to me.

Surely a work is ultimately what the author intended? Anyway, I’m not going to even try to tell you what these are about, or what they mean to me. I would however, be interested in hearing what you think they are about.

Follow @shankanalia on Twitter for live pain.

Shankanalia – Layers of Hatred Accrued Poetically

Fuck You
Your thoughts
Persist through me;
In me;
Defrauding me
Of free will-
Genuine intent.
In knowing this
I emasculate you,
Turn on you.
My head;
My rules.

I’ll Remember Your Ashes
You might be in my head
Alone
Hiding
In the dark,
I will find you.
I’ll burn you out
Till your eyes are cinders
Bones of ash
Raise you
Raze you.

Abmanagement
The tension I feel
(Cos you don’t know the question
To the answer you posited
With a sneer of authority)
Is my insides
Revolting at your stupidity.

Remember Morph?
I prefer to use my fingernails
To get inside your skin.
Peel back layers of flesh and fat
and claw the bones inside
Scrape out the marrow;
Make a toy.

Blubbery Tearing
Weep
Cry
Drown you in my sorrow.
Choke on my saline,
Ocular sweat,
I can see inside your lungs:
Rasping desperate red,
Like the lids of my eyes.

What A Pleasure
Tension crawls up my spine
A tremor in the tendons
A twist in the muscle
Bunched
Writhing
Inside out
Contorted remembrance
Scorned bones.

Mini-You
I’d blind you
Take your eyes
And hands
Make an homunculus
To dwell in darkness
And torment
To make you real
Gift you suffering
Bless with pain

Related articles

Shanktasm – The Derivation of Pleasure from Angry Poetry

by

0

I’ve been trying to figure out why I write poetry at all. I rarely write anything positive or life-affirming. It’s almost all aimed at wreaking havoc. Very sad. If I didn’t write it, I suspect I’d have to find creative uses for stationery.

Life can be stressful and is jam packed with stupidity and insistently, repetitively idiotic behaviour. Most of it can’t be challenged directly. Not without being fired. I strongly suggest you join in. If you feel like playing, tweet me @shankanalia and we’ll play hate tag.

Top tip: if you feel really angry in a meeting and don’t feel that you can safely or sensibly express that verbally, why not figure out how many of the items in the room can be used to kill the offending individual. It’s surprisingly calming.

You can follow @shankanalia on Twitter for live outbursts, and you can listen to some of the poems on Reverbnation.com/CaptainPigheart.

The Derivation of Pleasure from Angry Poetry

Burn At Both Ends
Burning with rage,
Fear-filled cunting candle of hate
Vaporising reason,
Feeling,
Thought.
Vanishing wax of loathing
Fuelling a pain-streaky wick.
 
Irreducible Stupidity
Elegant convoluted obscurity
Confers no greater accuracy
Truth or wisdom
The truth is complex
But that’s not why it’s true.
You are simple.
 
Really, still talking?
The raving banality
Saps my will
Runs dry of tolerance
Leaves the rasping
Bark of rage.
Say something useful
Better:
Be silent.
 
House Styles
Why do you think
It’s more of a question
When you exaggerate
The punctuation??
It adds no more meaning than your
Whining inclining pronunciation.
 
You Got Skillz
Fuckadaisical lazy parasite twat
Failing even in failure
An immense burden of incompetence
You can’t even shoulder.
Overflow and drown us all.
 
Cancerous Words
Sinking dread
At the sound of your face
That retching gasp of imbecile drool
Unique wisdom caught and hacked up
With lungbuttery prophecy.
 
A Rare Talent
Seeping
Painful awareness
Of your incompetence.
How simple
Can a thing be
To still elude you?
I know you’re unlettered,
Dyscalculic;
But also stupid.

Shankaphone – Shoving Angry Poetry in Your Aural Canal

by

0

Well it’s been a bastard few weeks, comprising both extremes of fun and misery. Excellent combination. These poems are all from a while ago – possibly even the first half of this year, and yet they call to me fresh and relevant from the rosebed of life.

They tread once more my familiar themes of loathing stupidity and the desperate failings of others to communicate either elegantly or well.

I recently read some more Shankanalia out at Pub Poetry and was thrilled to find they were both terrifying and amusing.

Do enjoy them with friends or family. You can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too. There’s a bunch of stuff I read for you at: Reverbnation.com/CaptainPigheart

Shoving Angry Poetry in Your Aural Canal

Internal Distemper
Oh hello there
You must be a feeling
Come and find a place
To be
In a space
On my face.
I don’t know you well
But you feel
Right about
Here.

Punctuality is Next to Accuracy
Starts at 9.30.
Starts at 9.30!
Be on time,
Get there early,
Don’t be late.
9.15:
It’s a 9.30 meet for a ten o’clock start.
Motherfuckers.
My sleep.

Brevity, An Impossible Feat
Indeed,
To summarise -
That is,
Condense our verbosity.
To briefly compress,
With short words.
I think you’ll find
The answer – we’re out of time.

Aneurysm By The Slide
I understand.
I do,
Oh god I do.
Don’t you have a handout?
Please.
I can’t take it:
PowerPoint doom,
Collapsing cogitation,
Death brain…
Oh I weep.

Quick Witted Fuckwit
My brain is dying.
The speed of your discourse
Like mind treacle
Wading through the slovenly
Progress of words-
Time too short;
Faster please.

Eleven AM
Fist chasing madman
Looped fist looping
Frenzy of fisted blur
Every throw misses
Circular punches
Maybe not drink so early
In the day?

Ask and You Shall Receive
If you didn’t want it
You shouldn’t have asked
For it.
What you got
Is what you needed.
You don’t know
How much I need to gut you-
Extract it from the source.

Shankalata – Tasting The Hate Verse

by

0

I don’t know if it’s a combination of increased work stress and other personal stuff, but I’m enjoying waves of rage, breaking across my heart and mind like a bloody tide. Perhaps it’s just that so few people out there (in my cynical moments) appear to offer any real worth. Not like you beautiful internet people, oh the delights you inflict upon my soul!

Terrifyingly I’m even struggling to find time to record how angry am through the journal of terse verse. That’s not good. It’s probably bottled up inside, ready to detonate and shower my colleagues with spittle shrapnel and pieces of vein. Ho hum.

Do enjoy them with friends or family. You can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too. There’s a bunch of stuff I read for you at: Reverbnation.com/CaptainPigheart

Tasting the Hate Verse

I Want to Understand You
Don’t do it
That way:
It’s wrong
Why did you do it
That way?
It’s wrong.
Why are you this way?
It’s wrong.
Why do I shout
This way?
You are wrong.

Finding a Purpose
Like a diamond
That’s been ground down:
Still sharp
In tiny ways,
But worthless.
Good for chewing timber,
Pencils or pens.
Just sit there
Quietly.

Whirling Devious
Like an elegant dance
Where you slip and slide
Twisting malice into lies
Making a messy
Alliance of bad ideation
And abortive creation
Dance.

I Missed You
How quickly the memory fades…
I’d forgotten in your absence
The level of ineptitude
That leaks out of your brain.
Oh, memory
Protects me from you.

Feeling Broody
Nasty little gashlets.
Screaming squalling
Continuous bawling
Rampant noise engine
Powered by uncaring
Parents.
Ravening horde of future thugs.

There’s Something in Physiognomy
Too fattened with ugly
To think
Excess skull
Shrunken brain
More face than an average human
With a head 1/3 of your creasing brow.
 
The Road to Hell
Rainbows and unicorns
Acid shower,
Napalm your dreams
Fry your My Little Pony ideals
Burn off your skin
Idealism in ashes
Fuck your happydumb.

Shankanalia – the shank in your coffin

by

0

Back to work – seems an apt time to post up some bloody verse. These happy little Twitter snippets largely cover my experiences dealing with, or rather putting up with / suffering / cleaning up after management consultants.

I’d compare them with homeopaths, but generally drinking water doesn’t do you any harm. Unless you do that instead of taking your cancer meds. Ah yeah – they’re exactly like those snake oil selling bastards: dangerous, irresponsible, well paid frauds.

Do enjoy them with friends or family. You can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too. There’s a bunch of stuff I read for you at: Reverbnation.com/CaptainPigheart

The Shank in Your Coffin

Favours
“Shank me?”
You’ll thank me
When I split your ribs
Pour out your organs
Make a moron smoothie
Feed it to your kids
Bleeeeeeeeeed
Out.

You Hired Who
Worthless pageant of lies.
To be so gullible?
No child is so blind.
Consultant expense
Talking cock with fellatriste’s mouth
Consultant lies.

Shushie
Indoor voices, mother-fuckers!
Keep your words to yourself
Nobody cares.
Indoor voices, mother-fuckers!
Don’t make me scream in my outdoor voice.

Missing Statements
Dignity.
The face of adversity
Is blank and empty of thought.
Respect for naught.
Abase yourself
In speech of confusion;
False words.
Ignorance.

Appointment
We’re ready for you
Oh, someone’s looking for you
We’ve moved
Try over there
Yeah we can’t talk to you now
Wait five
Come back later
Who are you?

Raw Love
Oh Pepperami-faced man!
Face of scrubbed corned beef.
Gristle-cheeked,
Bloodshot skin.
You have a mate:
I’m surprised.
She must like the texture.

The Booty Adventure

by

0

This is the tale of how I came to meet a man so ill-starred that the very Fates giggle when he steps out of doors – tis the finding of Luckless Larry.

 

 

“Holá, my name is Jésus, and you are arrived in time for the festival!” Gaargh, the man’s jolly temperament was a vexment I was ill prepared for. Meself and three of me strongest, yet least entertaining seamen had dragged a treasure chest of mysterious content and punishing weight through ten leagues of sweaty, line-dancing-filled jungle and we were in powerful need of drink and intimate massage.
I was about to make me displeasure known by way of punching but me effort was spared by a man who fell from above, squashing Jésus to a moanin’ pancake. The tumbled lad was under me feet so I booted him till he mastered his own. He was profuse in his apologies – he’d been disturbed mid-tup and tipped through the pane by the disgruntled cuckold. Fearful of further retribution he begged for our aid. Some of the jungle mire must have distorted his view of us for tis a small point of pride that even charity muggers give us a wide berth. But I knew well the sharpness of a cuckold’s horns so me pity-gland was full and I allowed him to take my place in the carriage of our chest.
On we went, meself greatly relieved of the burden. The lad’s name was Lawrence Shamespittle. A handsome lad, he’d no particular trade save wooin’ which he pursued with an enthusiasm that belied his success. For twas his ill fortune to always suffer the return of a lady’s husband at indelicate moments which had left him terribly frustrated in the britches. All of this and much more embarrassing detail he panted out to me from his corner of our trunk. I’d relate to ye further squeamly tales of masculine virtue derailed and declined, but me twin swords of rum and disinterest have mown ‘em from me memory.
The man we sought – known as Tooth-Eyed Gill – dwelled in a cabin far from the maddening crowd of carnivalling halfwits. To discover the chest’s contents we’d have to pass through the mass of lollygagging landlubbers. The path we hewed with our cargo was lined with curses, limping and corpses.
Such gashing progress led us at last to the doorway behind which Tooth-Eyed Gill would make us rich men. It had an evil reek which I attributed to the array of gutted sea-fauna adorning the shack. The breeze produced an array of toots and farts reminiscent of the for’ard hold at night; twas oddly reassuring.
Gill himself greeted us at gunpoint. Tis his way and we took no offence, loudly and very clearly reminding him of our affairs. He was not easily convinced and insisted on shooting poor Lawrence in the shoulder. His cry of pain and the bleeding convinced Gill we were real. Gaargh, had I not mentioned his paranoid delusions? Me apologies. A smuggler and hawker o’ misappropriated items, his skills were in great demand but his hair-trigger tendencies had made him even more enemies than he imagined he had.
Friends once more, he ushered us within and let off a few shots in the direction we’d come, one of which raised a justifyin’ scream. The trunk was laid down, as was Lawrence; bandages applied to the latter and a key to the former.
A warm golden glow lit the hovel. Our faces basked in its precious goodness. But before we could conclude our trade burly and roughened men burst through the rotting walls and laid down a volley of fire. Cannon-Fodder Colin was down and Expendable Alex had expended his last breath. Lawrence took the shot meant for me (bless his misfortune) as I sheltered behind him.
Tooth-Eyed Gill was in his element. His terrifying dentrified eyes snapping with rage he fired, tossed and snatched up fresh pistols from secret spots as he crab-walked about the room. He felled a pair of the interlopers but we were still outnumbered.
I locked eyes with Gill and realised we should leave before he lost all sense of friend and foe. He flung up a floorboard and tossed a flame into the shallow pit filled with a snaking nest of fuses. I dived for the door as our assailants pressed their advantage. Lawrence staggered beside me. Sadly me last crewman Beige Keith was trapped by gunfire. Still, tis no matter – I’ve not a thing to relate about him.
The cabin exploded as me face ground into the ground. Planking, arms, decorative octopi and a fine rain of sand and teeth pattered and thumped about us. Gaargh, as the smoke cleared I saw that the rancid hut was but a scorched pit, comically strewn with the bodies of our enemies.
Lawrence lay beside me, stunned by a flying fist to the face. I let him sleep and stumbled towards the blackened hole. Clearly the madman Gill had booby-trapped his hovel in case of such assault, but of the man himself there was no sign save a warning shot that missed me but thumped into Lawrence’s leg, cruelly waking the lad.
Of the treasure chest we’d drawn through the jungle and whose contents we’d so keenly anticipated there was naught, naught but a deep regret in me soul. I balanced its loss with relief for me life and the trading of three cumbersome crew for one luckless lead-soaker. Gaargh, I’ve had worse days.

Shankagon – the Shape of Angry Verse

by

0

Ah Summer, a time of sweating heat and the IQs dropping as the mercury rises. I find it harder to care with the endless greenhouse that is work – we’re now hitting 30 degrees most days. It’s horrible. I’m pretty sure if I bathed in the blood of strangers I’d feel much cooler.

Anyway, this seemed an excellent point to perspire some bile.  Hope you like them. You can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too. You can also listen to one lot of shanking verse: Shankanolalia The Sensation of Being Verse Shanked. I’ll pop some more up this weekend.

Download: song_12978901

Or get to all my recorded stories at: Reverbnation.com\CaptainPigheart

Shankagon

Ergonomic Fuckstick
Forwards
Backwards
Fuckwit up
Fuckwit down
Random ambling
Circular reasoning
Meandering wimble
What the fuck do you mean
Want
Think?
Twat.
All The Snakes Are Gone
Swarming faux-Irish fucktits
Drunken blunder
Obsessed with an unimpressive ale.
Slow to thought,
Quick to bellow,
Big hatted adverts for idiots.

Blemish
Something on your face
In your face
Skull puncture
No time to suture
Hole in the back
To match the front
Gashed
Smashed
Give me back my axe.

These Am The Alphabet
I’m sorry but you don’t make sense
That’s not a word you see.
Yes, you used letters.
Well done.
But they have to be in order
To be a word.
Tool.

Mind Tosser
Something slipping
Tripping
Slip-sliding
In your mind:
Marbles circling the drain
Tossed out by a child’s shake.
Fragile dreamer.
No one knows.

Private Language
You’re a madman
Loose-tongued,
Raving pidgin
Squawks of language;
Private jibber-jabber.
No I don’t know what you mean,
We lack common reference.

Shankinalience – the Overwhelming Annoyance of Angry Verse

by

0

More weeks of being driven insane by a society dead set on celebrating and promoting mediocrity, if not outright stupidity. And relax… I think it’s fair to say that most of these are work-related. But then I guess that’s where most of us encounter maximum idiocy; I know I do, because otherwise I avoid mankind entirely. Well, I hope you enjoy them. If you do, and feel you need to taste someone else’s poison more frequently then you can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too.

Listen to Vitriol

Oh, almost forgot – I’ve recorded one bilious spurting of poems and you can listen to it here: Shankanolalia The Sensation of Being Verse Shanked, if you prefer to read them, they’re here.

Download: song_12978901

Or get to all my recorded stories at: Reverbnation.com\CaptainPigheart

Shankinalience

Hope Lies Below
Backed into a corner
By your pride
Free yourself
Know yourself
Realism is stoicism
Find a door
This vertex has no edge
Pry it open
Escape
Fall

Portentuous Bastard
You have an aura of doom,
Ghastly penumbral darkness.
A taint of failure infecting the future;
Shadowy promise of defeat
Consuming hope and joy.

It Wouldn’t Take Much
**SYSTEM FAILURE**
Stem your mindless flow
Stab the stem of your brain
A cyst in the
Skull cavity
The size of my fist
Would silence you
Ailing.

Hemispheric Opposition
Colluding with yourself
Colliding in your mind
Left brain doesn’t know
Right brain makes it up
The sum of your parts is the sum of your stupidity.

You Amaze Me
Baffling incompetence.
How do you get here every day?
Overwhelming stupidity
Permits you incredible luck.
Undeserving
Fortune strikes for fools.

Murder by Dulux
Bone white,
Corpse grey.
How I long for more words
For the splashing red blood,
Seeping green,
Gash purple:
Your puddled rainbow on my blade.

Verbal Vitriol
Your words are poison
Burning reason’s flesh.
Your slow weeping death
A soothing balm
Caress rationality with your soft dead fingers.
Shush.

Victory March
Shame.
Shame and failure.
That’s the name of the game,
Or name and tagline of the game.
Describes the procession of stupid
Blundering hopelessly.

Shankostasy – rejection in Piqued Poetry

by

0

Well after a week off work I’m calm and relaxed. How I long to return to that nest of idiocy which pays the bills. My main grievance? Apart from the staggering inability to plan… the enviable ability to trust the words of outsiders talented only in speaking to beguile the credulous.

No – it’s not a cult having a disproportionate effect on managment (actually there is an amusing and mildly shocking side story about religious groups but it can’t be explored here), rather it’s the work of those happy souls the consultants. They lie, dissimulate, speak hollow and nonsensical prose – all of which is magically converted into gospel truth (yeah I know, let’s not get into that irony) by the brain of a maniac. Sigh. At least they’re not being paid tens of thousands to tell us what we already know or don’t need to know. Oh.

So… some of these mini poems were written during a period of such stress. Enjoy!

If you fancy you can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too, or just wait for the ‘collected works’ to turn up here.

Run The Flagpole Up You
Already your buzzwords
Overwhelm my will,
Meaning diffuse and vacuously aspirational.
Must kill;
Must find the fount of bullshit in your skull.

Pity the Fool
Idiot rain
Sweet tears of dismay
I pluck the sad dumb dew drop from your cheek
And laugh
Only you could be so stupid
And expect my sympathy.

Your Opinion Matters
Gash in your face,
Words fall out
In a random order.
Gobshite arseface,
Excremental monologue,
No one cares
About your funnel of rectal jabbery.

Some People Are Hard To Talk To
Do you understand the words I use?
Do they pierce your mind with meaning?
Does the brain sludge
In your thickened skull
Have a purpose?
Mud mind.

Fountain of Despair
Fountain of despair
Gloomy spray
Hiding truth from view.
Geysers of lies
Drowning the facts.
Your puddles of misbelief
Condemn us all:
Wet feet.

Dinotwat
Mesozoic moron,
Cretaceous cretin.
Skull surprisingly filled to bursting
With your tiny lizard brain.
Jurassic jerk
Soon to face extinction

Time’s Arrow
Your head’s on backwards
Or your brain’s in reverse:
If only we’d known,
If only you’d thought
Before speaking
Yesterday would have worked.

Shankatron – the Angry Poetry Robot

by

0

Well today’s been a bastard. The continuous geometric redesign, the geriatric mastication of ova, the sheer gullibility and ignorance… Ach. Much stupidity on a grand yet disappointing scale. Accidentally taking the cold & flu capsules that have caffeine in them on top of sleeping tablets produced a night of astonishing fucktuckery which in no way prepared me for a day in the office. Rage ensued. My highlight was declaring that I wished to clothe the building in napalm, oh and singing. Soon I shall pass out.

This one was slightly too long to fit in a tweet:

Julie Christie Blues
Lions and kittens and fucktards with wings,
Your giblets all ripped out and dangling on strings.
These are a few of my favourite things.
Then I remember you’re dead in a ditch
You ancient and evil fiendish old bitch.
And then I don’t feel so bad.

If you fancy you can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too, or just wait for the ‘collected works’ to turn up here.

Cut Around The Clock
1 o’clock, 2 o’clock, 3 o’clock SLASH,
4 o’clock, 5 o’clock, 6 o’clock SHANK,
7 o’clock, 8 o’clock, 9 o’clock STAB,
10 o’clock, 11 o’clock, 12pm SLICE.
You’re gonna bleed around the clock, and die.

Plasticity
Your face is
The shape of
The things that
I hate
Your face
Shapes my hand
In a sympathetic
Fist
Your face:
The last thing your
Children will ever see.

Customer Service
I’d forgotten,
Forgive me
How needy you are.
My apologies.
Your need exceeds your wit.
Your need exceeds
My desire to assist.
I want to forget you.

Fishing
Eviscerate,
Defenestrate.
These are great
For irritating playmates.
If they’re testy,
Use castrate;
You may need bait.

Clipboard Dreams
Death lust upon me
Once more your steely embrace.
Red mist,
Spattered moron on the floor.
Gut and paste,
Taste your pain,
Feel your wounds.
WIN.

Crowd Control
Hateful squealing mass
Gawking
Drooling
Illiterate gibbering
Point
Stare
Stop in the street
Solipsistic twats
I’ll mow you down
Impinge on you.

Girth
Oh lady,
Oh fat lady
Are you smuggling a whale in your arse?
Were you proportionate within
Your ovaries would be hockey balls.
Oh lady,
Fat lady.

Shankistry – the poetry of vomiting anger

by

0

Ah such fun, spewing bile into the endless depths of the internet. It’s good for the soul, probably. Sure, some people think you should hold it all in, tight to the inside of your ribcage until you feel like screaming. Then you find that you are screaming, holding a knife or a gun to the head of someone whose innocence is questionable. Far, far better to unleash it through face or fingers as immediately as possible.

There’s a special joy in being angry and bending it into vicious words. Such fun. Even better when people you know get paranoid and wonder if the poems are about them. They’re not (*whispers* “they are”).

Maybe you won’t enjoy them – that’s fine, don’t worry about it. To be honest I don’t really want to have to write them.

If you fancy you can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too, or just wait for the ‘collected works’ to turn up here.

Groceries
Retarded swarm
Idiotic aggregation
Of waste flesh
Clumped
Slumped
Browsing mindlessly
Bags as full as heads are empty
Cretinous mass.

Jumped Up Temp
You do my job;
I’ll do yours.
You don’t have a job,
So I’ll do them both.
Revolutionary plan,
Master of the scam.
Asset
Arseit
Why don’t you go?

Catching Up
Why won’t you die?
Too stupid to grasp
Your unwinding organs,
Too stupid to see your puddling blood.
Can your stupidity transcend flesh death?

Strategic Assessment
Fuck you and fuck your stupid plan.
An insult to intelligence
You make me want to weep
Tears of punch and steel
Revisions of blood:
Scarlet.

Pen Pals
BABBLING fuck-waddle.
Your email
Of blithering inconsequence
Fills me with dread.
Your purpose is uncertain,
Plagued with doubt,
Yet you forge on.

Team work
Random action!
Let’s do some stuff,
Let’s all cook,
Let’s all paint,
Let’s just do whatever we think
Best.
What a fucking mess.
Nice paint cake.

Mysteries of Management
You, you’re just some guy
I don’t know why
You’re talking to me
It’s clear
To me
You don’t know what you’re doing
So why, oh why must I comply?

Making Friends
I don’t think I trust you.
Ow what’s that?
Oh
It’s your knife
In my back.
I don’t trust you.

Martyrdom
Victim mentality
Criminal stupidity
Persecution complex
Attitudinal mess
Freak out and blame the rest
Your enemy’s the inside of your head

Shankilium – the Alloy of Angry Verse

by

0

Ah happy, the New Year has slunk over the edge of the calendar. It’s actually been a good start to the year. I missed Blue Monday entirely and it seems only fitting to catch up with some more bitter verse. Work has that effect. And frankly, if I weren’t writing this stuff down I’d be etching it on people’s foreheads with a sharpened bulldog clip. So yeah, enjoy!

If you fancy you can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too, or just wait for the ‘collected works’ to turn up here.

 

Tactile
Touch me,
Touch me.
I’ll kill you:
I’ll take your hands
And place them round your throat.
Not so light now,
Your feather touch
Fat hands.
Touch me.

 

Striving
Oh, it’s all about you
You’re the best you can be.
Too bad
That’s so far
Below the worst
That everyone else
Can be arsed to be.
Oh you…

 

Heart-Shaped Hole
If I cut out your heart
Don’t think
It’s because I don’t like you.
Let’s be clear:
I cut out your heart
So it wouldn’t beat.
It’s more than dislike.

 

Equal
Rude, rude and abrupt,
Condescending
Demanding.
You expect respect,
You don’t command it,
You don’t deserve it,
Rude, stupid and abrupt.

 

Arrogant Twat
Don’t stop believing that you’re right.
Deny the evidence.
Your reason is subservient
To your ego train.
You’ll never know whether
You’re right or wrong.

 

Hand Icing
There’s something in your face.
It looks quite amiss,
Physiognomy out of place.
Oh, that’s just my fist.
Glazed with my knuckle,
Makes me chuckle.

 

Two Plus Two Equals You
That sound,
(That you’re ignoring)
Is the sound
Of me informing you
That you,
Are erroneous.
Your premise,
And your conclusions,
Are false.

 

Team Work
You don’t listen
Because you’re talking.
You don’t understand
That what you’re saying
Is what I said,
Because your mouth is not an ear.
Oralear.

 

Shankalline Structures – the Salts of Irritable Poetry

by

0

Sure, Christmas is a time for good will and all that. But it’s also a time to look back on the year and consider the reasons for your present embittered state. Most of these will be work related. It’s never wise to give up on those negative emotions. Perhaps you’ve managed to package them for friends and family in the form of a disappointing gift. Well done, your curmudgeonly spirit willl inspire angry verse in them. And so a creative outlet is created.  So here are some more of my poems generated by idiocy and without this Twitter stream to poetically piss in I’d explode. If you fancy you can follow @shankanalia on Twitter too, or just wait for the ‘collected works’ to turn up here.

How Nice That You Came To See Me
When I see your face,
A terrible despair
Sweeps through me.
Your visage of impending dumb
Hollows me fearful.
Idiotic portent,
Panacea blade.

Continue reading →

Shankanostrophy – the Imminence of Terse Verse

by

0

So, work’s been good… As evidence, I’ve only written a few new tiny poems. I like the lack of editing which the Twitter process allows (fitting it in between spreadsheet refreshes and screaming silently at the telephone). I don’t know about you but I get incredibly angry and overheat if I don’t find some vent. Apparently it’s not considered the done thing to shank your cube mates with an HB. If you want this sort of aggressive wordery immediately, follow @shankanalia on Twitter. Otherwise I’ll randomly upload a bunch here.

Warm To The Touch
Your heat makes me sweat,
Dampening me,
Dripping on my anger coil.
Drip drip,
Irritation,
Explosive chemistry,
Heat makes me punch you.

Clarity
No, you’re wrong.
You’re almost right, and you think you’re right.
But you’re not – you’re wrong.
If you’re right then I’m wrong.
I’m not.

Cranial Onomatopoeia
CRACK!
The sound of your skull
As it bounces off the steps.
Yes, I’ve detached your unused brain case
And kicked it down the stairs.
CRACK!

Process
Log off
Log on
Restart
Reboot
Unplug
Replug
Draw sword
Slash down
Hack
Gut
Smash
Stamp
Punch
Kick
Hurl
The pieces make effective shrapnel.

How Nice That You Came To See Me 2
There’s something about your smile,
That makes me shrink away;
There’s something about your laugh,
That makes me cringe inside.
I don’t want to die.

A Match Made In Heaven
My fiery passion ignites your soul.
Sweet tinder heart,
You are fuel to my fire.
Conflagration delicto.
Husky burned love hole.

Own It
Is it you or is it me?
I’m guessing,
Only guessing,
A shot in the dark,
A child in a well,
The stars to a blind man,
Kisses for a troll…
It’s you.

Octagoring
We thought of using a system,
No one’s done this before,
We each created one of our own,
And rejected each others’,
Now we have twelve systems.