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You're Nobody's Producer

The glow of the old school CRT monitor cast an almost sacred light on our faces, and later the Philips TV, the screen for a digital aurora in the box-room. I remember the specific thrum of the PlayStation, the click of its disc drive, and the rhythmic, almost hypnotic sequence of button presses as I meticulously layered beats and melodies. This was for his GCSE music project, a task he’d presented with a shrug and an almost imperceptible plea for help. He didn't do or say much; he rarely did. He just sat there, knees pulled up to his chest on the floor, watching me, a silent, still observer as I sculpted a rudimentary track from the limited palette of an early 2000s music creation game. His presence was like a barely perceptible hum in the room, a quiet witness to the genesis of something out of nothing. I remember thinking, in that precise moment, that he was involved. Not creatively, not actively, but his quiet watchfulness, his unblinking gaze, felt like a silent endorsement, ...
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Enter a Room of Wankers

Enter a Room of Wankers

Enter a room of wankers, a curious sight
Fourteen of them fapping, with all their might
In came a servant, with a dirty grin
And swept them all up in a pile within

He emptied the chamberpot right over their heads
And drowned the masturbators in a mess of dread
Out they poured, slithering on the floor
A puddle of semen, a room in a sore

The first wanker up, he wiped his gooey face
And said "Let's fap somewhere else, what a dismal place!"
They all agreed, right quick as can be
And fled the room, praying they'd be free

So if you're feeling the urge, don't go astray
Into a room of wankers, or you might end up in disarray
Find a private spot, or you'll end up a sight
In a room full of wankers, with their spunk in the light!




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