Excerpt for Collected Works and Fake News by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

This page may contain adult content. If you are under age 18, or you arrived by accident, please do not read further.

Collected Works

A selection of

Fake News

and material written for other media

Copyright: David William Kirby

The Dogbreaths Publishing 2012

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.


Thank you for choosing to look into this piece which is a collection of material previously published elsewhere on the internet. The essays and reports take a tongue in cheek look at the day-to-day news (throughout 2012) and have been twisted into an amusing cartoon of the actual events; so don’t take them too seriously.

There are also, to add a little variety, essays which are no more than my imaginative creative writing and the odd verse. These are here to give an indication of my writing style and formula and are not, by any means, all there is.

To begin I’ve chosen an event that happens each year and 2012 was not particularly notable for any reason; it was just that day’s main news event. When asked to write a piece for the American Inter-Net-News this is what my savage imagination did to the event....

Please do not take it too seriously....

The Queen's Speech 2012

The Old Queen got dragged up in her best woollies yesterday, caught a bus to Westminster and blessed us all with her aged wisdom. Leaving her ivory tower on a wet afternoon, a handbag brimming with tissues and panty pads, the confused love spent an hour queuing in a branch of Westminster bank before realising it was Westminster Palace she was expected to visit.

She met a worried Dave Cameron, accompanied by his dutiful husband Nick, just outside the Robe Room where a coffee stained, dog-eared copy of her speech was thrust into her shaking hands. ‘Don’t forget the bit about gay marriage!' Nick whispered as she was sucked into the Robe Room by two robotic doctors.

Once inside her blood was changed, hormones injected, wrinkles pulled back below the trademark silver wig and diamond crown, magic dust sprinkled and finally shot up with extra strength amphetamine, the Old girl was transformed into 'Super Queen'.

To a fanfare of trumpets she was escorted into the Lords chamber resplendent and glittering with 300 years worth of nicked diamonds hung about her withered frame. The lords stood and thrust their right arms out shouting 'Siege Heil, siege heil!' as is the custom of the day, before the royal bottom lowered onto a golden throne (or toilet seat to you and me). This was the signal for the assembled to strain their ears and listen.

The old dear put on her glasses and to a soft serenade of farting read from the crumpled sheet given to her earlier that afternoon.

My Lords..' she coughed. 'Ladies and other plebs too numerous to mention, my government has instructed me to foster the following upon the nation.'

'Let's hope she remembers the Gay Marriage...' Nick Clegg was overheard whispering to a dazzled Dave as the old girl farted and continued.

'In the following year...' she sniffed. 'My ministers intend to pass a bill allowing them to creep into people's homes and read their mail while they are sleeping. They intend to put a camera into every bedroom in the country to ensure only married couples are having nookie and absolutely no-one is enjoying it. Excuse me....'

The queen opened her handbag at this point and took out a tissue before gently wiping her bottom.

'Sorry about that.' she croaked.. 'I had a cling-on.'

'Jesus!' Cameron gasped holding a fey hand over his mouth. 'She is a fan of Star Trek. I knew it.'

'In the preceding year there has been lots of scandal regarding boardroom pay...' Liz sniffed before glaring across the room towards Dave. 'My government has decided to end this with a bill enabling everyone who attended Eton School the right to earn billions tax free for life. Everyone else has to work like a dog for free.'

'Is Gay Marriage next?' Nick gasped expectantly reaching for Dave's sweaty hand.

'My government intends to introduce a Family Centred bill...' she coughed. 'That will end the misery of children across our great country withering in children's homes by making adoption easier. Any one earning over a million a year gets the pick of the blue-eyed, blond-haired ones. fifty grand and above get the Chinese, Asians and Jews while whatever kids are left get flogged off to the highest bidder.'

The Queen winked at a starstruck Cameron before adding. 'I have been asked to finish with a quick mention of Gay Marriage.'

'At last...' Clegg sighed.

'As long as the bride isn't expecting twins most weddings are gay, what with the flowers and dressing up; my wedding was particularly gay.' With that the Queen stood, the royal seat was flushed and she was gone.

'Was that it.' Clegg gasped. 'Why don't you give it a rest. Cameron replied pushing his way through the throng of transvestite Lords and their assorted prostitutes towards the bar. 'Can't you see the old tart's getting old.'

Behind the scenes Liz was sucked back into the vortex of the Robing Room, The crown was removed and the spaghetti-like collection of braces, clasps and elasticised straps which held back her unwanted wrinkles, released. The diamonds were stripped; the silk and taffeta un wound by the De-Robing robots and eventually super-queen was packed away in a box marked 'Top Secret' for another year.

Half an hour later Liz, like thousands of other British grannies brought back to work because they cannot manage on the state pension, caught the No 95 to Kensington from the bus stop at the back of the Lords.

The charade was over for another year. Sitting next to Kevin Nutter from Penge on the top deck Liz was overheard yawning.

“If I doze off can you give me a shove when we're at South Ken. I get so tired these days...”

I see three flea

Come close ma dawg, so ill comb thee

to get dem dead, dem fleasies three

to put dish toothie combie thing

and catch dem rodden, peskie flea

I wonder comb thee closer still

and wedder you do agree

we get you ridden of de itchie

that has so bother thee.

Done run awee my poor doggie

I’ll chase for sure and yule sea

dat when I comb that hairy house

I well trap those itchie three

I’ll run dem fleasie, easy-peasie

and have dem for me dinner-tea

so sit still, poor doggie-do

and let me get de itchie three.

David W. Kirby 2012

Death waits

Death waits near

rusted nails sharp

dry those tears

they’re cold as stone

Death waits for all

feel that heart beat

move on now

Don’t be scared

In cold draughts

you’ll meet that face

her embrace is taught

we all die alone

A pendent of coral

shameful and fright

nearer our end

we all tread tonight

sweet veiled she pouts

death ordered soul

She tugs at my cuff

Waits by my hole

Her fingers grab

our safest place

Death waits tonight

see her cold face

Her name is quiet

she poses no toll

Death call out and

welcome you home

Fingers reaching

give up the fear

death comes a marching

her footfalls are near

Death is a gushing

she may ready know

Life’s a blue sneer

An empty goal

Death comes tonight

brass fittings and all

Foolish she peddles

Rotten she call

to love those fingers

boney and slime

kiss her barbed lips

just one last time

Her name is oblivion

Her blood is called shame

those fingers stab

At my life again.


With your high-heels, tongue and red toe nails

Twisted hips and snakeskin scales

We greased our palms on rubber tiles

Wore the same plastic smiles

Come, kiss the whip, nest of youth

As the viper drips its sweaty filth

Tread my face into your breast

My phantom, I want your sex

Those leather boots and corset ribs

In-soul, crutch-less, painted lips

Come on, lick my fishnet face

And rip your pubic plastic lace

COME, knotted, touch my parts

Tie a rope across my heart

With lipstick scent of rock and soul

Lets hold hands and then let go

Thigh-high loves, chained and locked

Bound and knotted strutting cocks

Breath your cold fetish breath

Take me closer to fake death

Let’s hold hands across this bed

With cuffs, pierced gold capulets

Joined by skin and finger tips

I’ll be a stud on your strap-clips

Go deeper still and down below

Before the end of all we know

On buckled chest, stiletto

Crack the whip and seed will sow

cross my thighs,yha bite my lips

Put your studded strap across my hips

Walk my hopes and ride my dreams

I will not tell. I will not scream.

Disorder now, do as I say

Actors in a warped role-play

Bite me, fight me but you’ll pay

I am your master you are my slave

These silver trinkets and steel wire

Leather tools and pins of fire

lick these heels, seditious whips

hear commands from red-lips

Thigh-high loves, chained and locked

Bound and knotted strutting cocks

Breath your cold fetish breath

Take me closer to fake death

Let’s hold hands across this bed

With cuffs, pierced gold capulets

Joined by skin and finger tips

I’ll be a stud on your strap-clips

British warmonger’s unwrap new weapon

As news reaches us that HMS Daring, the brand new 1 billion pound battleship procured from stolen pension funds and disability benefits, has been directed to keep open the Strates of Hormuz, the war office unveiled a new ‘secret weapon'.

It was discovered recently that radar signals can be bounced from William Hague's massive bald spot to anywhere in the world.

He was used only yesterday to bounce, into space, secret coded messages from Myanmar using just a metal comb and a bit of light greasing to his mammoth dome. Luckily the government officials in Myanmar didn't notice the odd fact that someone with so little hair was in need of a comb.

The coded messages (apparently about the lack of a decent cup of tea in the British consulate) were bounced off a satellite onto the equally vast open space which makes up David Cameron's forehead.

This enables both men to communicate psychically no matter where in the universe either may be.

It has been reported that should the UK enter into conflict with Iran the joint bald spots of Cameron, Hague and the lovely Prince Wills will combine to make a collective dish with the transmitting power of the Arecibo Observatory. This will enable the British establishment to report anywhere in the world on the relative merits of tea and other non alcoholic beverages.

Should this not happen they plan to offer their collective domes to S.E.T.I as these people already base their appearance on the so-called Gray aliens and have an existing interest in making contact with higher intelligence (something that is rare in Whitehall).

Something to share

I have often heard people say

‘I didn’t ask to be born’

But I did.


I can remember sitting

by a sparkling pool

surrounded by ghostly faces

A voice said

‘Are you ready?

I looked into the pool and saw

A road, a pavement


Feet trudging.

through the snow.

Are you ready?

the voice asked.

Then I was born….

I grew up thinking

this memory was

a hallucination

A fabrication

Mixed up, childish fantasy

Now I know the truth.

The voice I heard

was my mother speaking to me

in the womb.

The sparkling pool

was the birth canal

I was destined to travel through.

The faces and ghosts

were reflections

of my face in her womb.

The shoes were her shoes

The feet were her feet

trudging through the snow

as she made her way home

with a baby on the way.

I thought I’d share that with

The United Kingdom issues Paedophile Newspaper

Great Britain has become the first country in the world to issue a newspaper specifically aimed at paedophiles. The ‘Bun on Bunday’ Rupert Murduck’s latest rag is catering for its core readers with peado-friendly articles and photo shoots containing underage girls.

The Bun on Bunday was released originally with the sound bite

Fag-hating, Nigger-bating, Mother-fucking News making

wrote large across its front page. Murduck eventually relented under an avalanche of criticism about this and changed the slogan. It now proudly proclaims

Fag-Hating, Nigger-Bating, Girly-Fucking News making

out of respect for his elderly (200 years and counting) mother.

The original Bun newspaper became famous in the 80s and 90s for its page three pictures of elderly topless women. Murduck, repulsed himself by the images of saggy-titted wrinkled old slags, decided that his new rag should have titillating pictures of pre-pubescent girls, posing seductively on the laps of geriatric, newspaper-owner-like wretches. Despite warnings from his doctors that the weight of a skinny young lass, dressed in see through panties and full T.O.W.I.E make-up could shatter his brittle leg bones, Murduck insisted on posing in the first Page 4 photo-shoot.

The picture depicts Murduck (with yellow budgie-smugglers, brown nylon socks, sandals and nothing else but a lecherous smile) bouncing 9 year old Deelie Deepthroat upon his frail and spindly knees. An insider told this reporter that Murduck was drugged to stop him dribbling over the child and to prevent an erection that may have deprived his brain of much needed blood. He was quoted after the photo shoot saying

‘These young girls are such seductive bitches; raping is too good for em!’

The new Bun on Bunday tried to play down its predecessor ‘Nudes of the World’ after the scandal which led to it being scrapped. This happened when Murduck was found by police hiding in a tree armed with spying devices, spam sandwiches, jello lubricant and a three foot spiked dildo.

He had been observed looking into the window of a local catholic girl’s school. Murduck had been filming the nuns beating their naughty charges with rose bush branches across their bare buttocks and his noisy whoops and whoos had alerted the police.

When forced to climb down and explain himself Murduck had said he was looking for a lost dog. He’d seen it climb a tree, apparently, and was using its favourite toy, the spiked dildo, in the hopes of urging it down.

When asked why his mobile phone had thousands of photographs of semi naked nuns performing corporal punishment on scantily clad school girls Murduck had tried to bribe the officers with the spam sandwiches. The uproar caused the collapse of his publishing empire which he is attempting to revive with the new tabloid.

A fleet street insider predicted the rag’s success, saying

‘...It’s written by the brain-dead for the brain-dead; it should sell millions.’

(The use of the ‘N’ word and other themes in this article was meant to ridicule Murduck and his sleazy empire, showing the corporation’s contempt for cultural and gender issues. It does not reflect the author’s ideas or views in any way)

I Tried

When we met I thought you were the one

That seems so long ago

I never thought these doubts would stay

Or with time they’d grow

Never thought, as time passed by

Your words would break my heart

Instead of growing closer together

We seem to have grown apart.

I remember that hot day in June

When you whispered ‘I Do!’

You were swearing vows for all your life

I was expressing my love for you

But soon after I couldn’t look

at you in the eye

I realised this sham was through

But was too scared to say goodbye, yet you say

I didn’t try….

Why can’t our days be like our nights

When we’d lay so still and hold each other tight

I see the stars burn in your eyes

Never wake to cloudy skies

Dreaming dreams of better lives

When we had love….

The day we met I thought you were the one

The answer to all my prayers

Now when I think of all you said and done

I want to turn back the years

To that day when our paths crossed

And this journey was about to start

I remember loving you so

Before you broke my heart

Thinking about a hot day in June

When a ring made me yours

Before all those things you did

turned a marriage into a war

We realise that this thing just died

I can stand no more of your lies

The day I found I couldn’t look at you

was the day to say goodbye

You can’t say I never tried

Why can’t these days be more like our nights

We’d lay in bed and hold each other tight

I see the stars burn in your eyes

We never wake to cloudy skies

Dreaming dreams of better lives

When we had love…


Dressed in sawdust and cockroach, the two-eyed renter forgot her dream and woke.

She lay there realising what peace there is in silent wonder.

‘Could it be?’ She asked herself as she slid towards the disposal unit and excreted last night’s earnings.

‘That love exists only in daydreams?’

She stood, swaying for a moment, gazing into the cracked full-length truth reflector and shook slightly. Shaking at the sight of her stickleback hair, shiny and slippery, and that death’s head face; with its awful protruding eyes and grey shadows.

She trembled at her flattened nose that hated the stink of the world and more, still, the functioning deep mouth and narrow drooping shoulders. Her flat breasts, thin waist and padded groin were ready for tonight’s lavatorial encounters.

She drew a deep breath, knowing the truth resembled her.

Strapping on the over-mantle, clipping her leg studs and scorch resistant overall she moved toward the door. The nauseating stench was overcome by her need to eat.

It was a hot winter’s night; the steaming wind was tainted by the acrid smell of burning embryos again. An electric stink like rusted metal hit her as she stepped from the porch. The fumes of life, she thought, stank like death.

To her left a radiation mutant sold plastic discs as souvenirs of the crumbling city. No one was buying today, who wanted to remember this?

‘Buy a disc…’ he sang. ‘Only a slice of bread.’

The renter walked like a wide-boy, all false confidence and swaggering insecurity, down to the Army barracks. There the fattened and glowing soldiers stripped off their masks and barrier uniforms to rest in decontamination baths.

They took their pleasure at their leisure.

A wave of knowing smiles followed her brisk progress and from behind brown masks red eyes envied her supple movements. Many a mouth was dry with lust that night.

‘The world is my oyster.’ The renter remarked under her breath as a target emerged from the shadows. ‘It will feed me tonight.’

‘Food for lewd?’ she whispered towards the darting form.

‘Fuck off you diseased cunt.’ The shadow spat before dipping into an open sewer.

By the barrack gate the renter was passed be a group of freshly steamed soldiers. A glance was exchanged and an offer expressed in the slight rise of an eyebrow.

‘Now!’ the soldier growled impatiently. ‘Here. NOW!’

‘Food,’ she whined in return. ‘Food, Pleasure, FOOD!’

The soldier looked around making sure the steam hid them from prying eyes. A tin of beans was produced and a smaller tin of corned beef, both were dated 5-8-5, two years hence.

Her renter’s eyes widened and the lips began to salivate as a bony finger reached for the prize.

‘It’s such a worthy price.’ She smiled.

The deal was struck. The two tins were passed in a darkened alleyway; so secluded the dead bodies hadn’t been labelled yet. They lay bloated for the eyes to feast upon. The renter slipped the tins into her lockable pocket and unsnapped her leg studs.

‘Spread-eagle!’ the soldier murmured as he unzipped his jumpsuit.

She lay back in the maggot-infested dust and tried to concentrate on the radiation-tinted stench of death and embryo fires. He mounted her and her body automatically moved in the pleasure motions. Her thoughts drifted back to last night’s dream where she was living in a house and her mother was cooking dinner for the family.

Swimming in the steaming smells of thick gravy and feeling her teeth sink into soft potatoes and green cabbage.

She could feel the nutrients in her blood just by remembering them.

‘Urgh!’ The soldier spat breathlessly as his heavy body collapsed down upon her forcing the air from her small lungs. He lifted himself up and she looked down at the whitewash splashed across her groin-pad.

Then she caught a slight wisp of rotten meat, the smell of unclean foulness that said he too had the sickness.

Maybe just the start of it but she could smell it in his blood and emissions. Of course, he hadn’t declared it, as he should had, just like the others she had known; but then again, neither had she.

He stood and zipped up before spitting a thick green glob of lung material onto a scurrying maggot rat.

‘A lousy fuck!’ he said before turning and going into the mist.

The renter stood, checked her lockable pocket and was happy to find the lock secure. This made her laugh for the first time that day and as her screams rang out in the darkness someone knew she was happy; or insane.

She laughed not for herself or for the irony of their illness; she laughed because, really, she wanted to cry but wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Weeping people starved to death and today she would live.

Smiling, a black demonic smile that only the mutants recognised, she shuffled off. Gone was the swagger, gone was the pretence of confidence. She shuffled off toward her open fire and bed of sawdust, towards a saucepan of beans and corn beef and her only trusted friends, the roaches.

The women of the year

December is a cold girl

wrapped in fur with iced stares

howls chilled moans,

her foggy songs,

call to her winter lair

January born on a new moon,

her blue breath freezes hardy storms

her whispers are snowdrifts, icicle smiles

that girl was made so forlorn

February wakes, a queen reborn,

wailing winds in nights of art

she sniffs and coughs a sickly child,

nursing sad a broken heart

March is a proud and wilful child,

in bluebell fields we see her dance

blossom falls from her hair,

her beauty breaks our winter trance

April’s tears fall like rain,

for loves lost she wails and cries

May attends her needy woes

and brings to bare some brighter skies

June dances around the sun,

bedecked in gems of buds and fruit

in her arms July lays warm

in a blaze of flowering shoots

August is a lusty soul,

singing in the morning song

dancing flowers in bright red hair,

she makes the day hot and long

September does not sleep till late,

she’s there to worship the sun at rise

her serenade harvests home the crops,

her smile brightens up the sky

October can be a brooding bitch,

dressed in wools

and thicker coats

when she screams the leaves will fall

her storms rock the sturdiest boats

November’s chill is swift and sharp,

her eyes betray a year now lost

her icy looks can freeze a soul,

her cold breath brings home the frost.

Obama seals ‘Special relationship' with a burger.

U.S President Barack Obama relaxed in London, before flying off to head the G8 summit in Paris, by helping to cook burgers and fries with the British Prime Minister, David Cameron. The barbeque was seen as an endorsement by the U.S.A of the Prime Minister's 'special' relationship.

David (Call me Dickie) Cameron, the first openly gay British Prime Minister, entered into a civil partnership (almost a marriage, but 'Gay') with his lover Nick (Call me knickerless) Clegg last year after a whirlwind two-week romance. By cooking the burgers with Mr Obama, Mr Cameron hinted that he was the butch one in the relationship while Mr Clegg busied himself with Mrs Obama at the salad table.

Dressed in a pink silk shirt and cravat and wearing his signature fluffy 'barbi-doll' sandals Mr Clegg exclaimed

“…You just watch and see what I do with this cucumber.”

He proceeded to show, what's known in Bangkok as, the disappearing doodah trick, much to amazement of Mrs Obama who almost choked on her hot dog.

The president was overheard discussing a hot topic on the forthcoming G8 agenda with Mr Cameron, namely the Libyan crisis. Apparently the United nations has specifically allowed everyone in the world to bully the small Arab county into handing over its mineral wealth under the mandate entitled 'Let's get Gaddafi'.

'We can't allow someone with a 1970s bouffant haircut and such poor taste in interior design, a position of power on the world stage!' Mr Obama stated as he turned the burgers. Mr Cameron nodded sycophantically and chipped in with a smile.

“You'd think the Arab countries had never heard of Vidal Sassoon, let alone floral soft furnishings.”

'Excuse me boys' Mr Clegg interjected as he minced by with a jar of pickled courgettes. “I can do wonders with these.” he winked.

“Yes He Can!” Mr Cameron giggled ironically before bringing up the more serious issue of Mr Obama's failed healthcare project. This election promise was beaten to death by the Republican opposition in the U.S recently.

They feared the introduction of healthcare for all and said it was the first step toward a communist takeover. The Republican Party even funded a report by a team of eminent sociopaths which concluded that only communists were healthy and that health equalled socialism.

Their ideal American society would be one where only the rich were healthy and everyone else was as sick as dogs.

Mr Cameron enquired why all Americans thought British people collectively had bad teeth when, going by the evidence of The Jerry Springer Show, Americans had unparalleled levels of buck-tooth syndrome. Obama let slip that this myth was dis-information put out by the C.I.A to make American plebs feel superior to their western peers. He then flashed his $40.000 worth of veneers paid for by the Democratic 'media budget'.

The only difficulty in an otherwise splendid afternoon was at the main gate where, sometime after Mr Clegg had handed out fairy cakes, a person tried to gain entry without the proper security clearance.

The unwanted guest turned out to be ex-prime minister Gordon Brown who, since leaving office, has begun gender reassignment treatment. He now goes by the name of Glenda Brown and after taking advice from gender-bending Lord 'Mandy' Mandelson based his style on Hlida Bracket. Dressed in a Dusty Springfield wig, baby-Jayne make up and white stilettos.

Glenda demanded to be admitted telling the bemused security officials that she had been 'Awarded a certificate in presidential Hospitality’ and that this training had been designed by Monica Lewinsky. The part-time course is taught to students at the ‘Cynthia Payne Ladies School of Modern Manners and Bondage in Washington.'

'Get a load of those ear-rings' Mr Clegg was overheard whispering to Mrs Obama as he peeled his partner another grape. 'Wouldn't catch me dead in a pair of them.' he said before adding.

“Not with that colour eye shadow. It's so goash, dear.”

Miss Brown was eventually led away from the gate in tears by a friendly civil servant and was last seen telling a cab driver to drop her off near the cottage in Knightsbridge.

Mr Obama later confided to Mr Cameron that he had had a gay experience while at university and stated that, although it went in his mouth, he didn't suck. The afternoon of relaxed camp comradeship ended with soft music and fairy lights. Mr Cameroon and Mr Clegg changed into matching white US Naval Officer uniforms and slowly danced together under the stars while Mr Obama and his wife washed the dishes and put the Hoover round.

The special relationship looks certain to continue for another few years unless Mr Cameron tires of Mr Clegg's predilection for Abba music and insistence upon using haemorrhoid cream as lube.


So you wanna make money

Get a record on the decks

You wanna be noticed, well

Get yourself some sex.

If you gotta tell it, sex will help you sell it

If you wanna get ahead

Get a man inside your bed…

If you really want to win

Sex is the only thing

If you wanna be a hit

Get sex, just get with it

If you wanna be free, you gotta use your body

Sex is the only way

To make some sucker pay.

If you wanna be someone

Girl you gotta have some fun

Get a man to sign a cheque

You’ll have to use your sex

If you wanna travel far, let Sex-Drive your car

You know that you can win

If you give yourself to sin.

Get with it-get that stuff

Let’s not talk no more of love

Pure Sex, Hard and Fast

That’s what makes the moment last

Take your baby by the hand

He’ll soon understand

And if you want real success

You have to use some Sex.

A Glowing Speck in a Glimmering Void

Come, close your eyes and imagine this for a moment.

This dense, oval orb that is our universe; glowing brightly with light and colour amid the frozen void of empty space. Imagine it. Silent and vast, it’s immense beauty stretching out before you like an infinite enigma.

Look closer and see the spirals of galaxies, clouds of vibrant space dust and the glowing nebula which are the birthright of stars.

Look closer still and see a spiral of singular stars spinning around a central sphere. One galaxy of diamond and glass, the last embers of a once great fire, that burned in the heart of this cold place.

If you peer closer yet, you will find there, amid the flashes of light, a small system of planets, meteors and comets attracted all to a central glowing sun whose immense weight calls its sisters and brothers to rejoice in the beauty of this place.

There, in that space that is neither too cold nor too warm, a moon, pitted by time and worn by age, orbits a blue pearl of a sphere. A gem of a planet that’s vivid colour screams to the void that all life exists here.

Closer still and there through the veil of cloud and water vapour a flock of geese ride the cool air and a beautiful landscape unfurls beneath them. It stretches out from horizon to horizon, grey here, and red there but generally green and the bluest blue that nature ever imposed upon mortal dreams.

There set beside a lonely road, beside the small collection of old trees that have seen far more than we imagine, a smattering of shrubs and bedded plants surround a small herb garden that frames a thatched cottage.

Decorated with flower boxes at its windows and in one dusty pane a crystal flashes rainbows around the cool room within. Peer through this screen of glass and find therein a lone man resting beside a table. In his hand a pen and a sheet of clear paper waiting patiently before him. His life is in its twilight years and he silently contemplates the passing of years as if they were seconds ticking past like the rhythmic tick-tock from the wristwatch upon his wrist.

If we look closer still amid the fine grey hair that sprout from his pale wrinkled skin. We can see follicles there and deep pours which stretch across the frail bones of the aged. Closer still we see the microscopic life forms which make their homes upon that warm landscape. Eating shards of dead skin and burrowing beneath the surface unseen.

Closer still and we find the surface becomes just collections of watery cells which float in a sea of viscous liquid. When we peer closer still, we see each cell is just a minute collection of particles, made up from atoms, electrons, protons and neutrinos.

These vibrate and spin around a central core via electrical magnetism. We see their dance and play in this microscopic theatre of life. Look closer still and there between them a void exists. An orb of space flecked with untold light and colour.

Look closer still and in that unseen void, so vast and infinite, another universe exists. Here are the same spiral of galaxies, the coloured dust of centuries and the warm nebula where stars are born.

Look further into that singular space and see, there, amid the decay of lifetimes. Here a pool of light is orbited by a host of small planets and rocky meteors. There in that place, that is neither too warm nor too cold, a glowing speck in a glimmering void, perhaps a blue orb exists. Shimmering brightly of emerald green, sapphire blue and those rainbows that light has betrothed us; signalling there here all life exists.

And look closer still, into the infinite.....


(A nod to A. Ginsburg)

Why do I see the best of this generation

dressed in khaki,

Ordered to shed their

blood at the behest of suited cowards

out to make a name.

Why in yellow dust they crawl through

the blood and limbs

of dead buddies

eating the dirt of other races

They had enlisted for sustenance becoming

cogs in a multi-national conglomerate

That has crooked motive, cold

arms deals and hush money

Passed in dirty brown envelopes between

sober suited, boozed up politicos

out to prop-up

the family, the name, the business, the money.

Why do, OUR BOYS, diligently,

bravely face


Third World tyrants armed

by the same unseen hand

In the dry Arabian Desert.

Blood mixed with oil


Into the cracks between those

Hideous lies

and dogmatic theologies

Why, wearing black hoods covering green scales

The army of Molach,

The great corruptor

The giant of Western Finance

Slithers between the dismembered limbs and ghosts

of our proud blue collar children

His wondering eyes transparent to the

trauma of death

his grotesque fattened belly,

black eyes, dead emeralds on a coal beach,

He breathes caustic fumes

and they destroy all they encounter.

Wearing a crown of bloody thorns

S.A.M missile dogteeth,

dripping HELLFIRE

The king of imperial conquest

MOLACH demands more child sacrifice

in return for the wealth of nations

Wear the star of your god

He hisses

Make this child immortal by the burning

of temporal bodies, he sneers.

MOLACH, seeded by the belfry bats

His acid stench nostrils flair

at those who worship

Raising the great city, a void

of vacuous sycophancy

A luminous cancer of fetid neon

Eating all thoughts of altruism in a blaze

of condensation

The monster guides OUR BOYS


pushing them onwards

Into the arms of mother I.E.D and

the blank snarling salvation of death

WHY, twisted and bloated they tread

dead babies of lesser mortals into

this dry earth

and close their ears

to the screaming nightmares around them

MOLACH probes unseen

behind the gestured gun

Behind the towers of glass

and fluorescent

urgings of ugly realty,

the AK47, the pop and blast of

Fractal weapons,

blood fills the throat

stifles a pregnant scream

The deafening terror of our boys,

Our lost children

The young men of this generation

Earning cheap metal medals for

entrenched cancerous finance

The sharp teeth crunch, the jaw

Moves silently


Western Military Complex

Grinding the young bones

of healthy young men into

the dry desert earth

WHY, does a cosmic soup of failed eyes

and twitching limbs

A groaning, insipid plea of mercy

get lost in the lies and bluebottle flies

the twisted digits of old men

Their hedge funded, clinking decanters.

Their shaded deals, their share forecasts

And somewhere in those faded files

a young man cowers in the dark

He wonders what his mother is thinking.

Jesus, he stutters, I have a complex

This Industrial Military Complex

Of steal and salt,

treaties and torment,

The depleted uranium corrosion of

Mutated babies don’t bother them

Them, the good old boardroom boys

as they shake hidden

Hand signals

To the birth of a mega-deal

The capital interest

shits through the birth

canal of gross collateral damage


Our youth, our men, our future

Die their dutiful death.

My neighbour’s gentile offspring

With their bright eyes, wide smiles

and heroic thoughts of

Parades and cheery homecomings

Fall like blossom from a spring apple tree

Grown in a tender garden

by loving family.

Their comradeship and heroism

Cheapened by Molach’s grip on

Boardroom Diplomacy

Slide down that greasy pole,

you self-servicing


Take your fucking rehab,

your dead eyes

Your lost limbs

and the love of this life

that you have stolen

And ram it down the throats


Look at this

The bodies of my mates,

this one died for me,

That one cried as his head exploded

He only joined up because he was poor

He was bored,

he wanted a trade,

to learn to drive

He wanted an education

just a normal fellar

Where’s the compassion?

This platoon was ready to suck it up


Up goes the alarm and

Here is the silence

Now, as the dust settles around the decimated

bodies of His mates

Kneeling in the blood soaked tears

of friends sacrificed

I try to remember the training

The fucking indoctrination

Why, when curses become prayers in the

mouths of the un-ordained

Frozen, words hang in the

frost-ridden morning air

They carry a flag draped box

The Woolton Basset Brigade

They stand straight and shine those brass handles

They step out in the spiral of secularism,

Now lost and lonely

They wander the byways of this great city

Looking for the scraps

They wallow in the fetid beg-sink estates

And ask passing shadows to remember their loyalty

They fall by bronze statues of long-dead-lorded generals

Scratching the dirt from their fingernails

They dream of childhood raped by hopes

of hungry young men spat out by the machine

They crawl through the hearts and minds of family

who see only wheelchairs and limb-litigation

They scream, shouting, crying to be noted

Looking through death lists for once close friendships

They roam needless and wanton sinking lost hopes in a bottle

Drink and fall down, they piss in the gutter

They remember the bad things, the dark things that haunt them

They turn out for reunions and think of the lost ones

They salute the black flag and vomit it’s colours

They, the lost generation of collateral so damaged.

When the monitor is switched off

The cigar smoking fat-cats sign

another blank cheque

And they say softly

Remember my friend, don’t tell the public!

MOLACH’s fetid breath seeps through the eerie-still boardroom

hisses over the putrid stink of injustice.

High finance smiles.

Its yellow teeth like

Jaundice lymph on the lung of



Cheer them home, boys, cheer them home

Call them home, boys, to the weeping of sisters

The gnashing teeth of wanton lovers

The yearning to be with them

To ashen-faced mothers

The tight lipped fathers

Call them home boys

Back to the stale crusts that fall from the table

To the bones of raw pickings

To the snotty face at the window

The class ridden uniform of conformity

Let them know WHY they died.

Black man enters palace through front door ‘shock’!

News has been released that Buckingham Palace has dropped their thousand-year old segregation policy and have allowed a BLACK man to enter the palace through the street door. This privilege has previously only been open to inbred misfits, mad generals and old queens. Any person who was black was usually met by a stern butler and told that 'Deliveries should be made to the rear!'

This change in policy was forced by the revelation that in our old colony of America black people can actually become President, something like being royalty without the life-long free cash. It is in this office that Mr Barack Obama (No relation) was allowed to enter the sacred confines of the palace and actually breathe the same air as her Mag!

She was busy on the toilet at the time trying to pass a royal motion and was not able to welcome him across the threshold and so the job was done by her feckless son, His Royal Baldness Prince (Call me Princey) William. On hand to make the occasion seem normal was the new bride Catherine who was the only person in the room Mr Obama and his wife could understand; royalty having an inbred speech impediment.

At some point Mrs Camilla (call me Barbi) Wales, wife of our aged and senile Heir to the throne, escaped from her straight-jacket and ran through the room screaming 'Help, they're all mad round here!' Dressed in a ridiculous fancy hat and inch thick make-up the terrified woman was eventually trapped under a net and dragged away by flunkies.

When the Old Queen had finished in the bathroom she shuffled to the reception and managed to raise a hand to shake Mr Obama's; unfortunately not realising that her panties were still around her ankles. He smiled gently before wiping his hand on a nearby footman and suggesting the old girl get put down soon.

Reporters were told that her 90 year old husband Mad Phil, was being kept out the way because of his habit of punching Black men; something he picked up in the army. Mr Obama and his wife thanked the family for their time and then headed out into the real world to do more important things, the queen was last seen being chased by a footman who wanted to change her nappy.

This Ganja Life

Julie had a kid by a boy she didn’t know

And Ricky grows grass in his cellar down below

Joe caught A.I.Ds from the gay next door

His father’s in jail and his mother’s a whore

There’s a house across the street that sells good drugs

Their garden’s green but it’s so full of slugs

They shot out a window of a passing hearse

That was taking Sally’s baby to the yard by the church

There’s a park where we hang called Graffiti Hole

Junkies shoot in the corner and we can smoke blow

No one bothers us when we turn the sounds loud

I always feel safe when I’m part of that crowd

It’s all right, all life is here

It’s my life, my ganja life

It’s all right, all right here

This is life, just living, a life, of sorts

Jimmy got juked coming out a shop

The murderer laughed when caught by a cop

Denny was so angry she smashed a row of cars

got her face tattooed with rainbows and stars

There’s a stall on the market that sells glass pipe

And a man on the corner will fill what you like

If you smoke enough it will stop your pain

With a shed full of shadow and a sky full of rain

Sammy shaved his eyebrows in lieu of a deal

He had with the man who sells morphine pills

They had a liaison at the back of the Ritz

Now Sammy’s shooting up and his mother’s in bits

It’s all right, all life is here

It’s my life, my ganja life

It’s all right, all right here

This is life, just living, a life of sorts

I guess we will meet up one dark night

When the girls do their hair and the boys will fight

We’ll cruise down south and steal clothes once more

Getting chased by the guards across the shop floor

Lucy and Gina will score a little cash

So we can share a pipe and load it with hash

At Graffiti Hole we’ll all meet up

The boy’s will have the booze say the girls with luck

We’ll turn up the sounds and scream so loud

No one can touch me when I part of that crowd

It’s all right, all life is here

It’s my life, my ganja life

It’s all right, all right here

This is life, just living a life, a life of sorts

Fashion world rocked by celebrity resale shock.

The world of fashion has been reeling from news that garments bought by celebrities at knock down prices are being sold on for thousands. Mad hatter to the stars, Phillip (Call me Ducks) Treacy is said by insiders to be fuming after a hat he made for Princess Beatrice was sold on eBay for £81.000 this weekend.

'I don't know why I bother.' Treacy told friends as he relaxed in Stallions sauna and cocktail bar after the news broke. 'I work my fingers to the bone and put up with whingeing divas and the like, all to put mother through college, and this is what happens.'

It is rumoured that Princess Beatrice, currently famous for being the 'Thin' royal, plans to use the cash to finance her bid to take over the world; an idea she thought up while having her nails done last week.

Other celebrity fashionistas, like Dame Vivian (Call me Mistress) Westwood, currently exiled in France after a failed relationship with Gordon Brown, are planning to hide self-destruction chips in future gowns so they can be blown up remotely should they ever get a whiff of eBay; insiders speculate.

Mr Treacy is currently having a bargain basement sale of hats after his most important client Boy George, (who initially wanted something to cover his massive bald patch), was impoverished and locked up in another recent sex scandal.

George (Call me anytime) O'Dowd had previously tried everything to stop his hair falling out including having a tattoo of Beyoncé’s bonce placed over the most glaring points. All to no avail, it was only after seeing how good Kylie looked in a Treacy hat that he went to the mad hatter for help.

Treacy's team hired a group of NASA scientists to map the ex-pop stars massive head (which can be seen from the moon in good weather) and he ploughed everything he had into filling the gap.

'I'd never been ploughed so much!' a startled Boy George remarked afterwards, allegedly.

The Measure of a Man

Measure a man by the deeds he’s done

Never by the wars he won

Measure him by his actions too

Not by his clothes or shoes

Value a man by his grace

Towards those of another race

Measure his humility

And his love for you and me..

Measure a man by his volition

To contemplate a state of passion

To see this world free from ills

Measure him by what he feels

Assess a man by his common sense

Never by his affluence

Measure him by his charity

And his love for you and me.

Celebrate our difference

Don’t hesitate over this

His mind is more important then his skin.

Love is the power with which we can measure

And if it gets better

It’ll hold us together

It will help us value him. Value him.

Measure a man by what he says

And not by the tax he pays

Measure him by his dreams

And by his suffering

Measure a man by his eyes

Not by the car he drives

Value him by what he sees

And his love for you and me.

Measure a man by his sense of fun

And how he treats his woman

Measure his sensitivity

Not his masculinity

Value a man by his smile

And how he holds a child

Measure his consistency

To give love to you and me.


The children are chain smoking

Hanging under dim street-lights

Mouth abuse at a neighbour’s house

Starting up a fight

Some as young as nine years old

Proudly screaming for a thrill

They put stones in the window

Going in for the kill

The want to rip out your throat

They spit and swear and mouth threats

Saying wait till they get you home

You will be the one to regret

Kids admit to even greater crimes

Then we believe they’d do

They’ll cut your throat and leave you dead

If you allow them to

Guess what’s behind their hate

Do families lead that way

Towards this

total urban decay

Or is it just me?

The children are revolting

Telling their experience of love

What made them grow that way

Made their skins so rough?

Television shows a proud war

Blood spills as tears pour

We fill their heads with proud death

And they rot to the core

Perhaps the education’s crap

Or is it the football-cricket-bat

A process of emulation

Is destined to be a child’s creation

And they’d admit to greater crimes

With a sense of overblown pride

We teach them to steal and stab and riot

Give them smack, cocaine to try it

We’ve installed, in them, a sense of hate

In the way we relate

Kids aren’t naturally formed that way

They’re part of our roughian world

Britain’s reel after being told benefits cannot support 'Celebrity’ lifestyle 'shock’

Millions of British benefit claimants are reeling from the news that they are not allowed to over claim to pursue a 'celebrity' lifestyle. This comes after mother of four Jayne McKnight was charged with FRAUD for claiming that her four children were sick and her feckless husband had gout.

Gap toothed McKnight had thought she was allowed to blatantly lie on her claim forms as 'Everyone did it round here.' She had used the extra money to date film stars and footballers and was rumoured to be the other woman in the 'three in a bed' Rooney scandal; allegedly.

Her wrongdoing came to light when a benefits snoop saw McKnight on the arm of one of the JLS boy band coming from a nightclub in central London. It's been well-known for benefit snoops to frequent expensive nightclubs and bars in the hope of catching someone out and recently the tactic is paying dividends.

Claiming in excess of £15.000 a year (a wage normally reserved for top road sweepers and the like) McKnight splashed out on wide-screen T.Vs, games consoles and hi-fi equipment but had, so far, failed to get her awful teeth fixed. She claimed the 'Johnny Rotton' look made her more appealing to the stars she sought for weekends of f** and beer debauchery.

Mike O'Grady, assistant director for criminal investigation at Revenue and Customs said that people who constantly lie and cheat the system can have a very nice standard of living in this country, just look at the Royal family and the banks for instance.

Although he did concede that Ms McKnight had gone too far in that her husband’s gout was really just an in growing toenail and her four children did not have epilepsy just occasional earache and fleas allegedly.

David Gauke (no relation) Exchequer Secretary to the Treasury stuck his two penneth in by adding, the Royal Family earns millions for this county by attracting gawkers and oddballs from all over the world 'They deserve every penny even if we are closing hospitals and other vital public services.'

He went on to say that Ms McKnight had been a very naughty girl and deserved to be in a workhouse and her children sold into slavery; allegedly.

The last word went to a Mrs Winsor of the Mall who added, 'These people think they deserve money for nothing, next thing they'll all want to be married in Westminster Abbey at the taxpayers’ expense, bloody cheek. My husband and I earn every penny we steal from the public purse and have I got a wide-screen television, No I have not....er, what was I saying.'

Destroy my hole

It’s warm in here, warm and safe

A silver moon shines through my pane

Dull voices in my head

Loud screams emerge from my bed

I was happy here, my dark friend and I

Shared damp cellar, shadowed brown

I cry when you’ve gone

wear my body as your frown

A fool soon realises

Mistakes can happen in the night

With timid smiles and reprises

when a moon’s shining bright

Alone with desperation

No one hears this loneliness

Cold hands upon my chest

Here, grave come a guest

Let’s celebrate these scars

A thousand cuts and troubled thoughts

Earth to earth and love to live

Is this all my life has brought?

A happy boy when he was young

Before he cried and died alone

So free to be some one

I want to be back home

Now the clock is silent

My dark friend has left and gone

A blade glitter in the twilight

The end of this….song.

Royal wedding ‘A fix’ says elderly thespian.

Simon Callow, actor extraordinaire, gay icon and all round clever clogs has ridiculed the royal nuptials by saying it wasn't serious enough. There were already suspicions about the event after it was announced by a very posh person that they wedding certificate had been classified 'Top Secret' and will stay in a vault at the Public Records Office until the 'real' rapture.

There were rumours that this was because Kate Middleton was BORN a MAN, real name Kevin Muchbreath.

Mr Callow, who was awarded a C.B.E in 1999 for 'services rendered' highlighted the difference between Will and Kate's wedding and the absolutely Fab event that was Charles and Di's.

Remarking that the cucumber sandwiches were not laced with a particular brand of mayonnaise and instead had been poisoned with cheap salad cream, that the Archbishop hadn't even brushed the cornflakes from his beard and that the queen wore the same crown she had on the day he got his CBE.

'It just isn't good enough.' Callow purred, dressed in his Pussy Galore outfit as he made his way to the matinee performance of Cats; a show in which he has starred for the past 30 years. 'They really should try harder, I would...' he added.

Mr Callow was given the 'Sexiest Gay in the Universe' award in 2007 (and is always pictured with a bevy of beautiful muscle-boy babes when he goes out) told an insider recently that he was very disappointed by the whole wedding thing.

Saying he couldn't understand the public's excitement about the event especially as both parties were clearly bored stiff. Kate's six o'clock shadow was beginning to shown by the time she got a look at Will's ring, and we all know how embarrassing that is, Callow added.

Thinking back to a grander time, Mr Callow reminded everyone that when he was younger he and Princess Diana went to the cinema together. She could even afford popcorn, he remarked, something you just don't see royalty eating these days. Shuffling off on his gold painted Zimmer frame Callow added that he isn't expecting an invitation to the palace soon as he's gone off old queens and so have they, allegedly.

Did he jump

Did he jump

or did he fall

Some would wonder

in their way

As gushing waves

gnarled at death

by the cliff and sandy bay

The ragged rogue

becalmed and cold

Rolled in foam

amid the stones

I’ve not seen him so happy

Someone whispered

while others groaned

What wretched thoughts

Bothered him so

what fantasy

or withered goal

Why he chose to die

A misplaced belief that he could fly

Or perhaps life

had grown insane

he could not continue

in such pain

The voices echoing in his head

persuaded that boy

towards death

peace, at last just

one step forth

to hear no more

screams nocturnal,

wrangled wrought


torment infernal

so did he jump

or did he fall

who among the watcher’s care

No one of those

who gathered there

could understand

or really share

The hopelessness

washed away,

that day

under that cliff

by the sandy bay.

The Liar

See that Jag over there

We have one like that

It’s off the road for a while

While it’s being re-sprayed black

I’m on a monthly allowance

From my mom and dad

I’m not inclined to spend it

That would only make them mad

It’s gathering interest

Until the age of twenty one

When I get the country estate

And a nice and tidy sum

I choose to live in a council flat

To be nearer to my friends

And only claim benefits

To get some free, extra spends

I got a helicopter

But I just don’t use it now

It’s far too good to park round here

It’s in a hanger out near Slough

My mother was a princess

Third in line to a throne

She’s in exile after a coup

In disguise at an old folk’s home

My father ran M.I.5

Controlled spies for the yanks

His cover was as a plumber

bugging foreign water tanks

My family owns an air force

We lived on a battleship

always sailing off, of course

To find a port in which it fits

At Christmas I was on board

And boy did we have fun

Letting off depth charges

And firing its six ton gun


the neighbours complained

Only coz they were petty

Next time you visit me at home

Ill show you my gold lamborgetti

Then you’ll see that I’m important

Not just an average lad.

I’m special and I’m interesting

Not Sad,

not bad, just a little,


Praise the lord.

HE was a (DELETED)

As were Mark, Luke and John

Paul couldn’t (DELETED)

And Matt was (DELETED)

Their Supper was an (DELETED)

It was so biblical

The second coming was a (DELETED)

from the messiah’s (DELETED)

When HE was (DELETED)

God, he loudly cried

Saying ‘My dad sees everything,

I’ll be crucified’

HE was a (DELETED)

mad for (DELETED)

He took it from the apostles

and only (DELETED)Judas

It was a miracle

when Adonai (DELETED)

To help poor old Lazarus

raise his (DELETED) from the dead

His passion was so glorious

It’s gone down in history

I wish I could get that son

to go (DELETED)

HE was a (DELETED)

many knew his love

He pushed them to their knees

and (DELETED)from above

The Nazareen was hard and lean

who’s bound to (DELETED)again

And when (DELETED)has risen

I will shout Ah, Men!


(The un-censored version of this (per)verse is available elsewhere in

‘Blasphemy and Buggery’

@ thedogbreathspublishing.weebly.com))

Big Society’ slogan worst in history shock


The director of Tory strategy, Steve Hilton (no relation), who likes to align himself with Christ by walking shoeless down the corridors of power, has admitted that the Big Society slogan was a mistake.

The man responsible for the di-nastification of the British Conservative party who showed Tory politicians kissing children (instead of starving them), cycling to work (instead of driving in their Rolls Royce limos) handing gifts to pensioners (Instead of

Continue reading this ebook at Smashwords.
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-51 show above.)