no more (nakedyouth) wrote in thee_childish,
no more
nakedyouth
thee_childish

alright kids. i'm sick of seeing zero activity here.

lets play the "my favorite billy childish poem is [insert title here] and i will now copy it out so everyone else can read it" game.



with the knifes of the lost
with the knifes
of the lost
they come
with the chapped
knees of children
with the palour
of the dead

faces marked
the hoards
the cyphers
hungry
and
stumbling

the un-loved
the unemployable
and
the hollow

but each with
a personality
there own
special tick
imaculet
unique
tiny mirricels
of perfection
but
still somehow
unspecial in
there multitudes

it seems that
to love the race
of man is impossible
jesus christ
to love ones-self
is harder still

in dead mens shoes
rite thru my twentys i walked in
dead mens shoes
and slept in daed mens beds
on matresses of blud and
stains unknown

and we laughed
and we kissed
and we wept
no wonder that out sleep
was so often wondered by ghosts

and in the charity shops i would buy
suit jackets with no trousers
a sure sign that this was the suit they'rewere wearing when they dropped

and sometimes thre was a name tag
and other times not
just an egg stain on the lappel
and once a safty pin and a two bob bit

and never believing myself worthy of
anything new
i walked with the dead
and slept in their eaves
drank from their cups
and ate from their plates
as if the poor were never burried

and if ever i find a penny in a pocket
i drop it in the nearest drain
vowing never to bow to its deadening eye
so being able to walk in dead mans shoes
and rid myself of ghosts

badges of hell
i etched this flesh
with stubborn badges
drawings of the damned
and cigarettes stubbed
to the quick

to be loved
and honoured is what i needed
to be aknowledged as god
to be breathed over
and held

but only fear held me
and the hands of lovers
that i could not believe

so i branded these pallid limbs
least others would brand me
and i hated myself
before any other could hate me

so when loathed i smile
for none can despise me
as sweetly as i despised myself

never to go back there
i remember there was these
boxes of old busted jigsaws
with bits missing
and the wendy house which
i wasn't allowed to play in
on account of upsetting the
jars of dryed peas that the
girls used to play shop with

n they rote my name (which
i coudnt spell) on a piece
of green card and placed it
on my desk infront of me

and you even had to put your
hand up and say please miss
just to go to the toilet

then they rang this bell
and we were allowed out onto
the cold tarmack for 15 minits
just standing round kicking
stones n watching the girls
play hop-scotch singing
rhyims and making impossible
skips

and
in the toilets there was this
kid with his ear missing
just a hole withy a rim of
gristle
like a cats arse in the side
of his head

and i sobbed
and begged my mother never to
make me go back there


i started reading bukowski at billy's constant reccomendationa nd i like him a lot actually. its kind of funny how they style is exactly the same. i prefer billy simple because i find hi scontent to be more compelling. and billy is a more interesting person to me so it adds taht much more "mystique".

also, halloween an di have determined that 'billy childish is dead' is crap as adocumentary and the director is a pretentious fartyface. but its absolutely priceless for all the footage when people aren't talking too much. especially priceless for shane mcgowan. ::hides in teh corner::
its also kind of funny how the director chose to end the film an hour early. there's THAT much extra random footage after the film has given us mortals the memo taht it has ended. its got some good billy interviews as well, but it would be nice if there was MORE billy and LESS weird fans.

please. say something. i clearly have nothing better to do then clog your lists up with MY pretentious drivel. mmmm.. hypocrisy.
::shuts up::
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