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!

An Atheist Christmas

An atheist Christmas is steeped in tradition,
Of showing your love without the addition,
Of mystical beings and trite superstitions
Or nonsense beliefs in bearded magicians.
Some call it hypocrisy, asking for presents
But why can’t I party with turkey and pheasant?
Asking my mum to explain omnipresence,
Whilst lacing her vodka with antidepressants.
At atheist Christmas, we all make amends;
A ritual release, our sins all are cleansed.
Akin to orgasm when abstinence ends,
Perchance it’s less sexual with family and friends.
Some call me blasphemer for voicing my views,
For showing no faith in the King of the Jews.
I don’t offer children for priests to abuse;
Nor choose to excuse all the ooze on the pews.
An atheist Christmas is not a hard sell;
No life everlasting, no miracle spells.
You can be gay, straight, bisexual as well
And wearing a condom won’t send you to Hell.
So join me and sing out along with the rest
“An atheist Christmas is simply the best!”.
If Jesus existed, he’d say “I’ll be blessed!
They’ve finally twigged I’m a fraud in a dress”.

Rapid Cycling

I have a mental issue;
It makes life quite a mess.
One day there’s I, I’m on a high,
The next I’m quite depressed.

You may see some behaviour
That most consider “strange”.
If I’m true, I’m telling you,
They’d likely say “deranged”.

When the mania settles in
I’m full of energy.
Sleepless, rude and really skewed, 
A reckless spending-spree.

Perchance you’ll see me drink too much.
I may take my cock out.
Always tense with mass offence,
Of that, there’s little doubt.

Then I’m dashed upon the rocks,
The steel clouds fill my head.
I scream, I stall, I shake and fall;
The world seems full of dread.

I push away all helping hands,
I hide myself away.
I turn my mind to dark declines
And want to run away.

To cloak this turmoil in my head:
This mask I hide behind.
Childish rhymes of sexual times,
And jokes so unrefined.

Consider it a way to cope,
Creative therapy.
A way to train my screwed-up brain,
To stop butt-fucking me.

If I did offend you,
Or made you want to run,
I’ll let you part, ‘cause hand on heart
I think there’s more to come.


Pornography’s a funny thing
Each way you look at it.
Dicks so huge with waves of spooge
And zeppelins for tits.

All seems very clinical,
Scenes are way too close.
With gyno-cam right up a clam,
It’s scary and it’s gross.

The men are picked, not for their looks,
As handsome, they are not.
It’s coz they’re good at keeping wood
And monstrous money-shots.

But strangely, as I’m writing this
There’s porn on my TV.
The “actress” moans whilst getting boned
In orifices three.

As much as I despise myself
For watching Forrest Hump;
Still I stare, I’m mostly bare,
Except a penis pump.

Pornography’s a funny thing,
But one I can’t resist,
When hormones raise and make me crave
A quick one off the wrist.

Transexual Blues

I was born a pretty girl, 
A beauty hard to hide
An 80s perm, tits so firm, 
Beyoncé’s huge backside.
It felt OK on summer days,
But something wasn’t right;
A monthly cork with achy norks 
Left me quite uptight.
Sitting on the lavatory,
I viewed my furry cup,
An amputee, who yearned to see 
Me pee whilst standing up.
Some called it “penis-envy, girl!”, 
Some called it “Devil’s work!”.
But all I cared was for more hair,
More than a Russian Turk.
And so I set out on my quest
To make this change to man.
I got my trout turned inside out
And called myself Big Stan.
So here I sit, years down the line
All stubble and beer guts.
Drinking late, with tranny mates
Comparing Velcroed nuts.
I was born a pretty girl,
I’ve gone from boobs to balls.
But it’s Sod’s Law, all I yearn for:
To get in ladies’ smalls.

All Works Copyright © 2017 Benedict Francis

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