Cum on the Carpet

by Patrick Shand

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A precursor to my mixtape, Tired Sluts, which will come out eventually.


These are some jokes
Why don’t you smoke?
Coliseum in my palm, warm, full of horse spunk and the deaths
Master still molests
I can’t dance myself out of anything, let alone another brown man burning
and young men learning that Durka Durk’s covered in dirt and his blood,
a blanket of shameful smirks,
and his shirt does nothing for his figure
and the figures go unnoticed
if reported at all
is forgotten In moments and they cum on the carpet

As he chokes her, he chokes you
A fist of dopamine, a fist in torn bodies
A dagger, inching, craving the pre-seminal
A stoning, masked gynocide
A field of roses, budding mass graves
Of all the lives we save by telling people what they want to fuck,
and the colour of kids they want to die,
yours is the loneliest
I’m sanctimonious because I get some

You love your little orange smock
I fucking love your narrow gaze
and your bewildered squeals as the periphery fucks you
and you bleed
Slurp it up, spit at your screen
Sleep, deep in a machine
Attention infanticide; what does that mean?
What does that mean?
You love it when I tie you up
You love the way you fill a hole and I do too
I fill you, you’re not news, you’re inevitable, inconsequential
Erase the notion that we can change

And forget the victims but revenge remains rigid
until you’re stained and you’re hungry,
until you repeat and your crust is a prosperous shore
and few people remain people
Statistics don’t fuck on the first date, fuck’s sake
It’s a ghost town and the ghosts lack personal hygiene
You’re binary but that doesn’t make you lonely
No junkie, no Fonjo or Tootsie
No sadist, just viewing abruptly ending gibberish
That’ll show them
That’ll show her for coming of age
Fuck It, you want balut & torture
No suture, don’t wake the neighbours
Don’t spit for your slavers
There is no war going on for your mind
War is for pawns and the deluded
There’s enough washed up shit on our sand
There’s not enough dry socks
There’s too much beach boy to get around
It’s time he was surfin’ back
These bloody stumps can’t prove their worth
when you can prove she wants it
Shit, you can prove she takes it
You can carry card
You can play house
Be a beacon,
be a glimmer,
when you could leave domesticity an inferno at your back
Bag your hammer, bitch you own it (all is forgotten in moments)
Gag your hog now, ‘till she’s broken
Leave it swollen, you token whore
I’m growing


released October 19, 2015
Patrick Shand - writer, producer, vocals, piano, keyboards

Sample: 'Agnus Dei' from 'Missa Brevis', composed by William Walton, performed by Choir of St. John's College, Cambridge.



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Patrick Shand Glasgow, UK

Musician and composer based in Glasgow, United Kingdom.

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