forhand

I drew this a while ago as part of a series, and my friend Valentina wrote a poem to go with it:

SHREDS-Things were louder when we was young,When we had the mighty pistols,Then, no harms were done among,If we nicked the Bobbies' whistles.When old punk parades were ripe,For streets raining sweet suicide,Til the buggers would drag on our tail pipe,And force-feed us their pesticide.Red stones of golden anarchy so were thrown,There for neck or nothing but hard-earned praise,In mischief alleys stitches of noble sin were sown,But the risk was the baton and a cloudy violet haze.T'were raw days for jumping needs,That bore the birth of punk fests with cocaine,When we swooped the lot for dumb deeds,Trouncing whatever, like punk vultures on terrain.Kentish town, King's Cross or Notting Hill,Their walls of shame sheltering horror speed,And seizing our doom dressed always to kill,For trading crowned lives for another living breed.Spiking the quiet glories of their selfish sin,As loud time, rushing on like forest fires,Was re-ordered around our concrete grin,Swollen from spitting scarlet at the public liars.For dented fury and shrieks of black drown,In swampish corridors still open for ground,Our frowns carried a solace for delicious brown,Amid the Godly vicious guitar-fed sound.But uncanny she came and soon smiled damage,Agony exits locked in jails of soundless fear,When toxic clowns did overdo the carnage,And paid Sid's sorry days for an opium tear.The shreds were sinking, the wizards went home,For grass to get married and window peep,There to conform to bleak cabinets of chrome,So that our shepherds lost all of their sickly sheep.Time leaves quickly and wrinkles have crept,What should happen 10 years on horizon,Turns up at the morrow’s doorstep,For new punk monkeys climbing their tree of oblivion.


Other than that, builders have cut through the internet wire for the whole of my building so I'm without easy access to the internet for the next month.