Besides the trivial meanderings of bloggerings herein and thereabouts, I have written screenplays (In Hollywood, Playing Willy) and am putting the finishing touches to my first novel, The Sublime Dramatic; a tale of science fiction, comedy and global conspiracies. News of that will be forthcoming, so please follow me on Twitter/Facebook for more information.

Within the pages here lies a treasure trove of total bollocks.  Why treasure trove? Because bollocks are testicles, which are colloquially known as family jewels - so treasure.  A trove? Well, as you can see from this intro - the trove is as drivelling as it is replete!

To Be Wanted

Have you ever been some fella’s fantasy?
Have you ever been some chappie’s dream?
Have you ever been some bloke’s sweet pudding,
That he’s wanted to cover in cream?

Have you ever been some lady’s Christian
While she sets out some Fifty Shades scene?
Have you ever been some madam’s Heinz sauce
While she flicks on a juicy baked bean?

Have you ever been some grandad’s craving
While the dead start to rise from beneath?
Have you ever been some granny’s yearning
While she spits out her shiny new teeth?

Have you caused nuns to break vows of silence
As thoughts of you cause howls & cries?
Have you ever been some trannie’s hunger
While he takes out his meaty surprise?

Everyone needs to feel wanted,
To feel that perchance they’re a dish.
Everyone privately hopes that
They’re somebody’s secret wank wish.

I Dreamed a Dream

Last night I dreamed of boobies
Abounding in the sun.
Tits amassed before my eyes
The dream had just begun.

Last night I took my cock
And popped it in a bag.
I took it out to show the girls
And hoped I’d get a shag.

But all that was on offer
Was a swallow, with a blush,
I agreed and thrown in free
Was a little thrush.

Last night I dreamed of chicks;
Of course, I’m talking birds.
My dream was ornithology
You filthy-minded turds.

An Open Letter To My Hair

Dear My Hair

I am writing to you with a tear in my eye and a cool breeze across my scalp.

It has proven very difficult for me to muster up the courage to write this to you. However, I think both you and I know the time has come.

This morning, as you may have realised, I cut you out of my life completely.  I had spoken to a few close friends who had persuaded me that it was way past overdue that I stopped clinging on to our relationship. So I did.

I remember the days when we used to spend so much time together. With the exception of a few mad hair-pulling girlfriends, no one could tear us apart.  Sometimes, you walked tall and flowed with me in the wind, sometimes you sat close to me, impersonating my fly-by-night beard. Whichever way I remember you - you were always there.

But, things changed over the last two years.  You started to sneak out of my life.  Little by little, I felt you distancing yourself from my being.  You hated being anywhere close to my thoughts and so you started to slip away. I woke up each morning sensing less and less of you remained.

I used to be able to brush over the gaps you left, but soon I was merely trying to cover empty spaces with more emptiness. It left me cold.

So, I started to cover it all up. Wearing a hat and pretending that you weren’t there at all. Then I saw us in the mirror. You, me and the hat. Indoors, with the heating on full. You were making me look foolish.

I saw my beard, my faithful beard who, despite me having such an on & off relationship with, clung there thick and strong. He had aged and was showing signs of turning almost completely white - but he was hanging on.  I saw my eyebrows. Our relationship is so strong that with every year, they get longer and bushier and quite unmanageable. But they were hanging on.  Hell, even new relationships have started to crop up. I imagine you met the ear hair that moved in not so long ago.

The upshot is - all my body hair was thriving and loving me. All except you.

So, this morning, I got out of bed & removed my Trilby. I looked at the place you once used to sit so proudly and I took a pair of scissors to you. When I had finished, I got the sheep-shearing thingies and hobbled you at the ankles. Then I picked up your lifeless form and flushed you down the toilet. A fitting end to someone who had abandoned me so long ago.

Now, I look in the mirror and see pride. I have taken control and flushed you away. I may well look like a Nazi potato head, but I have my pride.  I have control.

I know I will never see you again, but I just wanted to write you one last letter to tell you that, despite what I have done today, I will miss you. You son-of-a-bitch.

Yours sincerely


A New Years' Love Song

I must insist, 
Though oft I’m piss’d,
I’d ne’er miss
A New Year kiss.
I purse my lips,
I sway my hips,
Erect my nips
To pointy tips.
I turn to thee
On bended knee.
I count to three,
I weep a plea.
To Auld Lang Syne
I offer wine.
I take out mine,
Still you decline.
I give a rose,
I write some prose,
You stay composed 
And fully clothed.
So I stand here
As twelve draws near.
I down a beer…
…No kiss I fear!
And so you win.
Play violins.
I’ve given in.
I’m on the gin.
With no dismay,
I walk away
And softly say
“She must be gay!”

All Works Copyright © 2017 Benedict Francis

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