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This is a question Christmas

Tis the season to be jolly falalalalaalalalala, expounds Richards mcbeef. But is it *really*? Forced merriment, shit presents, awful relatives...One year my sister dropped an almighty guff in front of our grandmother and then literally pissed herself laughing. She was 18. But tell us *your* Yuletide yarns.

(, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 9:06)
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Christmas Suicide
Time for a Yuletide poem to cheer all you miserable sweetieze up!

This was the last work of failed Taunton poet and shelf-stacker Kevin Whirple, whose body was found on New Year's Day 2005 in his squalid bedsit next to a semen-stained copy of Shaven Havens, a pile of purloined Spaghetti Hoops tins, and a typewriter in which rested the tear-spotted sheets upon which this poem had been typed. Aged only 28, Whirple had aspired to be the new Philip Larkin or perhaps John Betjeman, but had failed to break in to the live poetry circuit due to his acute shyness and the shiteness of his poems. And so his final act, before downing his fatal festive cocktail of Domestos and vodka, was to write this poem. Maybe it's just me, but on this evidence I think we lost a great genius far too young.

Christmas Suicide

Sleigh bells chime,
Carol singers sing,
Presents under the tree -
But not for me.

No friends,
Family all gone,
No sex since 2001 -
All alone.

The stark horror of Yuletide!
Itís time for my CHRISTMAS SUICIDE.

The telly taunts me
With how life should be:
Couples Ė hugging
After Christmas shopping;
Families Ė happy
Round the Christmas tree;
Children Ė at play
O the Joy of Christmas Day!

But not for I.
I canít even cry.
No Christmas decorations,
Just piss and desolation.

The last Christmas card I had
Was from my mum and Dad
In 1997,
But now they are in Heaven.

Christmas Day for me
Is abject misery
So painful I canít endure it,
But neither can I ignore it,
So Christmas Eve sees me
With beer and vodka and whisky
To get my whistle wet
And make me forget
That tomorrow I will wake and see
No presents beneath the Christmas tree
That I donít have.

Santa hasnít been!
Santa hasnít been!
Although I donít believe in him,

I do not want for much,
Just the merest human touch;
But Iím denied all this.
Dare I dream a kiss
Beneath the mistletoe?
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh Ė
A perfumed neck, excited eyes,
A promise, soft, compliant thighs,
And Christmas consummation?
No Ė for me, isolation.

So it didnít really take me long to decide
On a SPECTACULAR Christmas suicide!

Full of hate and booze
I might even make the news!
But as I will be dead,
I wonít give a shit.

So now, as Winter encroaches,
My lonely death approaches,
But weep not for me.
By my own hand it shall be.
Iíll drink beyond my fill
And take a lot of pills,
And to make really sure.
Iíll lock the door.

And then for the last time Iíll close my eyesÖ
But, wait; whatís this Ė doubts arise;
Doubts which give me room for pause,
Maybe there IS a Santa Claus!
Maybe this Christmas will NOT be shite
And everything will be all right!
Maybe, if I pray to God above me,
Iíll meet somebody who loves me!
Someone loving and happy and giving,
So maybe Ė just maybe Ė life IS worth living!

And a very Merry Christmas to one and all.
(, Sun 20 Dec 2015, 17:36, closed)

(, Sun 20 Dec 2015, 22:50, closed)

(, Tue 22 Dec 2015, 7:23, closed)
That is a lot of words
Is Santa bringing you a new keyboard?
(, Mon 21 Dec 2015, 0:53, closed)
Oh skagra's posts are shiteful, but the fire is so delightful.
And since he just doesn't learn, let him burn, let him burn, let him burn!
(, Mon 21 Dec 2015, 7:15, closed)
HER sweetie
I'm a gurl
(, Mon 21 Dec 2015, 18:13, closed)
Children on the naughty list get only a single lump of coal in their stocking.
I hope Santa decides you've been good and brings you enough to build up a roaring fire, and then you can add yourself to it.
(, Mon 21 Dec 2015, 9:03, closed)

(, Wed 23 Dec 2015, 11:32, closed)

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