Perineum Millennium - The In-Between Years

Rust
Crawls down the side of my water tank life
Cuts like a knife
Sluts like my wife
And you'd like her too
People usually do

Pus
Seeps from the seams of our festering souls
Mostly just dripping
Ghostly and gripping
Slipping
Slipping

And if only I knew
And if only I had the questions
And the moment to ask
If only I had the shoes in which to dance
To take a chance to free myself
Enough to paint a portrait
Of my paternal grandma
Nude in public
Rude and pubic
Rubix, cubic

Sex
Resides in the core of my labyrinth mind
Masturbating minotaur
Saucy and sinister
Half man, half bullock
Large swollen bollocks
Mostly just swinging
Itchy and stinging
Stinging

And there will be times, there will be times
When sunset falls like a wingless bird
Ne'er to sing again
Ne'er to wing again
There was an old man called Michael Finnegan
He grew whiskers
Like magical Mr Mestopholes

In the room the women come and go
Talking of contract law and weight-loss shows
And if only they knew!
If only they could see the light
If only they could watch me try to write
The songs I long to write
And right the wrongs I thought I might
I mixed my colours with my whites
And now I fight the tide I fight
In mighty tight trousers and really big shoes
And nothing to lose
But my stiffy

I grow old, I grow scared
I shall wear my pre-worn trousers flared

And while the shadow may lie between ideas and facts
We can lyrically wax some more interesting gaps
Like the soft bit that sits 'twixt our arseholes and sacks
We're living in the Perineum Millennium
The in-between years
Not front bum or back bum, not fiction or factum
Not the ideas or the reality
Nor the shadow nor the hollow
Not a bosom for a pillow
Not Dante's big whinge about cruising round Hades
The Perineum is tasty as taties and gravy
It's quite big on the boys but just small on the ladies
And can break altogether when the ladies have babies

But still we insist on being brisk with the topic
In the fear the affair will turn colonoscopic
And we all know what Sigmund would say about that
As you lie on your back, etherised on a table
Like the fabled evening spread out against the sky
Let us go then, you and I…

Fuck that, Freud you perverted Viennese prat
Just cos you're a crack pot
Just cos you whacked off lots
As a little tacker
Your little pre-genius eyeball
Pressed to the keyhole
When your mum's in the loo
And you, aged just two
Sneaking a good ol' peep
At certain half-deserted streets
At the muttering retreats
Of your mum's "meat Venetians"
As she's bent over the bath
Your future stared back like a glittering path
Gilded with that golden guilt
Upon which you built
Your Oedipal empire

But always you searched for the soft bit unseen
For text beneath the pages
And the years between the anal and genital phases
The pereniul quest, life's only true task
The only real test us humans must pass
Begins at the testes and ends at the arse

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends:
Not with a full stop
But a colon