Super W.C. Operator

 I’m all alone at home sat tense, cursing the skies

All my stories and poems vanishing before my eyes

Yeah I’m getting so tired, of how this sites wired,

I think my sense of humour j-j-j-j-just went and expired

So sick of ineptitude, 

Blow me my W.C. Operator 

Super W.C. Operator

Can you hear me W.C. Operator?

Super W.C. Operator

I’ve lost it all, Operator

Super W.C. Operator

Super W.C. Operator 

Super

W.C. 

Super W.C. Operator

Super! Super! Man! 

Show me a man, a man who understands about sacrificing all your hard work

Who sees the crumbled ruins running through our hands, yeah!

I’m calling to the website god, you know what I am missing?Everything.

You’re a magician of imposition and flawed intuition

A man divine, a form sublime

Promising everything will be better next time.

Promising everything will be better next time.

Go on, make it better

Better, Better, Better, Better, Year right! 

Super W.C. Operator

Can you hear me Operator?

Super W.C. OperatorSuper W.C. Operator

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Thought not!

You super W.C. wrecker

Now I’ve gotta write it all,Once more, yeah… 

*  

This song is based on lyrics of the song “Super CB Operator” written by Crispian Mills and performed by Kula Shaker. 

The writer would like to acknowledge that he feels a lot better now. He also recognizes that he should have backed it all up more often. Though it was inconceivable for all but the hardened cynic that his laptop and the website’s content would expire at the same time.  

Wulfstan Crumble is a fan of hyperbole and Kula Shaker, if it makes people think.

Affliction of Youth

          Youth is perhaps something all adults want whether it is to live the good times again or to make a better job of the chances we mucked up the first time round. This poem is partly inspired by continued thoughts over those kids who have taken their own lives in Bridgend and partly by a lovely poem sent to me by my Argentinian friend Gabriela by the poet Facundo Cabral. I will post my own translation of his poem soon. Until then, thank you Gabriela.　Muchas gracias por aclarar mi día con un tan maravilloso poema. 

• Am I symptomatic
• Of the melancholy of modern youth?
• Feeling empty and alone,
• Separated by TV dinners
• And bedroom bound internet. 
• There feels like
• There is no one to talk to
• Parents do not understand.
• While friendships expect
• Conformity to be the norm. 
• We are the youth
• Complaining of nothing to do
• Save hang around
• Street corners
• Glaring at passersby. 
• We terrorise
• Vandalise stature and concrete alike
• We knife decent folk
• Because,
• What else is there to do? 
• Something lame? 
• And all the while,
• As we, the distracted,
• Seek our hedonistic highs
• Outside of crumbling innocence
• We are blinded. 
• Simple pleasures skirted over,
• Letter sets, left unopened,
• Chess, drafts, scorned as unfit,
• Rembrandt, Wordsworth and Austen,
• Replaced with FHM. 
• Drugs, sex and respect,
• Expected, never earned
• As lessons are never learned.
• Aborting lives,
• For fame or boredom. 
• We the modern youth,
• Dumbed down and unable to realize,
• That for each thing we miss,
• There are a thousand things to do.
• For each insult rendered,
• There are a thousand kisses waiting for us.
• For each bad parent,
• We see not the goodness in a thousand others.
• And for each evil pint sized Napoleon,
• We, a thousand adults, respect you for who you are not what you reject.

See this poem in bad Spanish:

http://wulfstanus.crumbulus.googlepages.com/laafliccióndejuventud

Pit Spawn

Can I make a plea

For a frontal lobotomy?

 

My head aches

For my withered heart.

 

Leaden limbs locate

The next choco-lift

As my brain fumbles

For fuzzy sentiments.

 

I’m constrained.

Squished beneath your palm,

Tightly bound

Under someone’s thumb.

 

You put me on autopilot

To avoid a riot

I swerve and smile

To a puppeteer’s style.

 

I love Japan

I love every man

And, I really want to say

Your land is so beautiful.

 

My plastic prison

Keeps me here.

Credit card crunchies

Lloyd Bank’s munchies.

 

You put me on autopilot

Sent me to the Hyatt

Your robotic foreigner

Left in the corner.

 

I flower and smile

Feeling mercantile

As I forlornly,

Prostitute my goodwill.

 

Give me reason

Give me a chance

Give me wings

And the purpose they bring.

 

I flower for you

I try for you

I work for you

I live with you

I talk to you

I try to help you.

Yet,

I am nothing to you.

So, just so you know.

All my flowers are plastic.