Bent double, like old beggars under ball sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing on cock, she cursed through puke,
Till on his haunting stare she turned her back
And towards his distant balls began to suck.
She seemed drugged. She had lost her soul
But limped on, cum-shod. All went lame; all cried;
Drunk with spunk; deaf even to the taunts
Of ‘you like that whore?’ that dropped behind.

CUM! Cum! Quick, girl!–An ecstasy of fumbling,
Grabbing his clumsy helmet just in time;
But she still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a woman in fire or lime.–
Dim through the misty pains of vomit soaked eyes
As under a green sea, I saw her drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at her, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the cameras at Studio Max,
And watch the white eyes writhing in her face,
Her hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin.
If you could hear, at every thrust, the jizz
Come gargling from her froth corrupted throat,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on her innocent tongue,–
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some wanky fun,
The old lie. Dulce et Decorum est
Pro specto Max Hardcore.

Max is currently serving a jail sentence for crimes against porn.

Resident poet Morgan Freechild’s latest offering. He’s gone a bit weird lately, we do apologise.

If you can spend all day downloading rapey puke porn
And blow your load and not yell the masturbator’s war cry
Of  ‘DELETE FUCKING EVERYTHING’.

If you can drink all night and spy a big breasted slag
Chatting to your best mate and rubbing her wabs against his chest,
And not find yourself instantly wedged between them both.

If you can finally agree to that drunken threesome with your girlfriend
And wake up to find a toothless pensioner going down on her
And suck his cock to show her that you are fine with it all.

If you can walk into a Kebab shop sober and order a Doner
And stare closely at the Satanic fat and gristle
Before you devour it greedily and walk away satisfied.

If you can for once fill up a bottle of tap water before you leave
Spend one minute buttering some bread and whacking a slab of cheese in it
And not have to spend five quid on shite when you are out.

If you can watch Pearl Harbour on DVD and laugh
And smile at the utter horror of Michael Bay’s retardation
And then watch it again because the special effects are impressive.

If you can watch Didier Drogba throw himself to the ground
Like a sack of shit for the hundredth time in a match
And not let even the slightest racist thought enter your mind.

If you can laugh at Jimmy Carr then
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

In what is unlikely to become a regular feature due to the utter shite that has been flooding the DOTJ offices of late, Morgan Freechild  picks out his favourite user submitted poem. This entry, by a mysterious figure who goes by the name of ‘Flannelsniff Brownstain’, is apparently good, or something.

My Days

Eight o’clock get up for work
Dog has shat on the carpet
He’s a real jerk

Flip on the breakfast telly
try and catch some news
The economy has problems and my dog has got the shits

Half eight, catch the bus to work
It’s full of wankers
They smell like my dog’s shit

Flip on the computer, get a klik’s coffee
What’s that smell?
There’s dog poo on my shoe and some on my socks too

I’m really angry with my dog
My colleagues look at me really funny
Wish I’d not come to work or my dog had shat on the carpet

Go to the toilet
Try and clean off some of the poo
This bloke from the mail room is also in there

He looks at me and twitches his nose
He asks: “have you stood in dog poo?”
I nod grimly, and reply: “it’s on my socks too”

Freechild speaks:

In a similar way to Shelley who uses the ‘lone and level sands’ (in Ozymandias) to symbolise nothingness after death, Brownstain repeats the  powerful image of dog poo to suggest a Godless world.

Shelley also uses the image of decaying statues in order to demonstrate the eventual meaninglessness of even the most powerful and famous human beings. Brownstain repeats the powerful image of dog poo to do this.

The lack of anything even remotely interesting or clever in Brownstain’s effort, gives it a raw and honest quality, which when combined with the powerful image of dog poo, elevates it to poetry master class status.

I found it touching, thought provoking, and moving.

Morgan Freechild, MBE.

Our second poem from resident poet Morgan Freechild is taken from his most recent collection, ‘Down, but not quite out’. The collection focuses on spirituality found in the most unlikely of places.

Ode to Brucey

I sit here on a Saturday,
Beer in hand and fag alight,
I wish my life would go away,
And enter everlasting night.

But wait, I here some angels sing,
And turn my head towards the sound,
The telly’s on and it’s that thing,
The dancing programme I have found.

Oh praise thee God for saving me,
With miracles I don’t deserve,
I used to not believe in thee,
But now forever I will serve.

Who is this man with chin so grand?
So full of energy is he.
Not of air, or sea, or land,
From somewhere else he has to be.

Heaven must his moustache be made
His face sculpted in paradise,
His youthful looks will never fade,
Many maidens he must entice.

Oh chin, great chin, great chin of yours,
Oh silky woven nasal slug,
Thou has’t opened so many doors,
‘Tis not quite time to pull the plug.

The can is empty, fag burned dead,
The night is late and dark and still,
But whilst before my heart was lead,
With pleasure now has it been filled.

In loving memory of Bruce Forsyth, dancer, entertainer, and Samaritan. Died August 11th, 2009.

The first poem from our resident poet, Morgan Freechild. Morgan currently has 5 published poetry collections, and writes mainly on the subject of the internet and morality. He is available to book for readings, and after dinner speeches.

Darkness

Look not upon these shameful eyes,
For they have stared into the dark,
And never will again see sky,
Or hear the sweet song of the lark.

This tranny porn I just wanked too,
Has ripped apart my glowing soul,
I really don’t know what to do,
That image of her gaping hole…

As I lie here in spunky mess,
I wonder how long it will be,
Before I take the mouse in hand,
And google Tranny Bukkake.