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Lord Staniforth


Bolton, England, UK

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Gold-Plated Lips


Lord Staniforth

Your sweet-scenes sense of speaking,
Is as dull as a sharp blade.
When it drains bloody-beat gashes,
Aromas of red roses,
Reek "havoc and let slip"
The screams of angels,
Mistaken for whores.

Wow (With a Smile)!


Lord Staniforth

"Isn't it wonderful!"
"Isn't it neat!"
So Goddamn cheap!"



Lord Staniforth

On, pastureless mound on fruitless ground,
Senseless to sheep of soothing sound,
I cannot praise, nor yet admire,
My sunkeness desires a choir.

Californians: Chapter 1, Verse 1


Lord Staniforth

The love of money is the
Root of all attitude.



Lord Staniforth

To stretch to the millions,
Beyond the deep me,
With words spread like surf,
As the fingers of sea;

With a breeze and a brain wave,
To strike upon men,
And drench with conviction,
Their sand-hearts again.

For hope is immortal,
As tides and the birds,
Unless your cold-blooded,
You'll soak in these words.

Santee Child


Lord Staniforth

"I don't care for your excuses,
Or your white, foaming lies,
I don't care for your deliverance,
From that storm within your mind."

"I don't care for what you rage for,
Be it rock, or be it roll,
I don't beat to your bad rhythm,
For that beat, it has no soul."

"I don't care for all you dream of,
Or your what and whys and when,
I don't care for what you care for,
Or think, so think again."

"I don't care for all your treatment,
At the certified and sick,
I don't care for all their calmness,
Softning blows, a money trick."

"I don't care for all your reck'ning,
You're the parent of neglect,
You're the child who slew my neighbor,
Your the ship that must be wrecked."

"All my care is for the loved ones,
'Cause their lover is no more,
For your storm has stole their coaster,
From the home of tranquil shore."

"Compos mentis, compos mentis,
Compos mentis, I protest,
For the dead those only jusice
Dulce et decorum est..."

The Colors of Love


Lord Staniforth

That blinding first glimpse,
The colors all white,
The radiant angel
Of skin-deep delight.

To know you the prism,
Had not had the time,
And all was the moment,
And all was the shine.

A night passed, then morning,
A day of more glare,
A month, then the color,
The red of beware.

The heat of a word said,
The blue in your veins,
These fibers of essence,
Clung to us as chains.

A year passed, the red set,
As sun to the west,
On orange-calm ocean,
Your temper did rest.

And forth came your beauty,
The twilight of truth,
That green-soothing velvet
Of pastures, took root.

The grasslands of caress,
The thin blades that kiss,
The heart of the prism,
This color of bliss.

henry weston


Lord Staniforth

Now henry was a wise man and cider did he make a keen and lovely flaver and boy it made you shake. The simpel way he made it was a wonder to us all cos when you have four bottels its a wonder you can walk at all