Catflea Massacre is the stage name behind the flawed artist, Steve Phelps. He has used the name for 30 years. After a band break up, the passion for performance continued and a name was required for a solo appearance.
His writing skills soon surpassed his guitar skills and so gladly turned to Performance Poetry .
Please indulge in a little of his work… below
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Adorable
Proud (To Be A Racist)
So, you’re proud to be a racist
You wave the union flag
You shout out little Tommys name
Throw your arm up in the brag
You campaign against the immigrant
Dream of bodies in the sea
Floating like some flotsam and jetsam
While you drink your Yorkshire tea
Read about the benefit cheats
That’s promoted through the rags
They blame them for every ill we face
Cause they’re all just scrounging scumbags
They come over here getting a house
Or choose to live in five star hotels
A car, free food and loads of dosh
And they’ll steal anything that sells
But it’s all just made up bollocks
To make you look away
From the millionaires and billionaires
Who make you want to pay
The immigrants get bugger all
The rich they pile it high
And you’re the ones who enable this
You bow at their feet and comply
The immigrants just want to work
And make an honest buck
They flea from fear and violence
That makes me say good luck
And before you condemn the immigrant
Just see where the monies go
All the tabloid owners laugh at you
From their tax haven in Monaco
Proud (To Be A Racist)
Fuck A Duck
Fuck a duck, I’m stuck
I don’t know what to write
It’s all shite
I want to be polite
Shit, fuck and bollocks
Fuck a duck, I’m stuck
It’s shite what I write
Keep it clean, yeah right
Bollocks in my brain
Empty page, it’s just a stain
Fuck a duck, I’m stuck
Some bollocks about love
Shit fits like a glove
It’s just not working
Could just be sleeping
Fuck a duck, I’m stuck
Bollocks to nice
Write what you see
Dickhead in the mirror
Hear, hear
Spider
If you see me crawl across the floor
Do not squish me with your shoe
I’m only looking to explore
And find a cosy place, it’s true
You may think I’m big and scary
My legs may be long but my body is small
My teeth aren’t sharp and I’m not very hairy
And I’m so little and you’re so tall
I’ll sit in the corner of your house
Feasting on the pests that roam
Like flies, ants and other types of louse
So that you can sit and enjoy your home
And if you squish me, well, I’ll be gone
You may think that’s it, it’s done
And don’t you worry you’ll be wrong
Cause my brother Sid, he carries a gun
He’ll fuck you up IRA style, sucker
And fill your spine full of lead
You won’t walk again, mother fucker,
You’ll just lie there, a cabbage, in your bed
And then he’ll crawl all over your body
And into your mouth when you’re asleep
Your worst nightmare he will embody
As your nurse wipes your tears as you weep
But whatever happens mother fucker
You’ll wish it was you who was dead
So don’t think of squishing that innocent spider
Or you’ll fucking regret it!
Spider
Tree
On the skyline at the top of a hill stands a solitary tree, a sign
That the traveller can sit beneath and soak the atmosphere whilst resting their feet.
And contemplate the span of history that has passed by its roots, ten fold of a man’s life
That will never be spoken, but imagined from inside the mind of the dreamer below
The rustle of the leaves calms the thoughts as the gentle breeze passes through
Releasing the endorphins in the mind as the two living entities combine
Into a single moment that can never be recreated, or indeed translated
By a passerby at the foot of the hill, as the pilgrim studies the branch that looks like a cock
Trough
I see it
A ten pound note
In front of me
Discarded in the trough
Soaked in piss
Floating with the cake
I make the decision
I’ll give it a miss
I don’t need it that much
It’s not life or death
I’m not going to starve
It won’t break the bank
I know I’m lucky
Right place, right time
Imagine being that despairing
That you brace yourself
Retrieve the note
Knowing someone placed it there
Only to gloat
Laughing with their friends
But you need to pick it up
To make ends meet
Until the last day of the week
Trough
Misogyny
Walking through town the other week
I saw two blokes and one did speak
My missus needs a new washing line
Eggy Mess
On occasion
I reminisce
On the delights
Of that egg sandwich
Biting down
Watching it ooze
From three sides
Obscene spectacle
Lick the edges
Cover my chin
Creamy sin
Tongue chasing
Cress stuck
Between teeth
A natural pubic hair
Mmmm… Triangular oral sex
Pity The Poor Millionaire
Pity the poor millionaire
With their meagre stack of notes
Dashing all their dreams and hopes
Asked to pay more tax
A despicable targeted attack
Would slash at their throats,
Steal their children’s education,
Cause algae in their moats.
It’s not fair to pick on the minority
It’s called financial tyranny.
Pity the poor millionaire
They weren’t blessed
With the strength of the immigrant;
The innocent who flees from war, fear or famine,
Learning how to survive in life
As they trek with Damocles’ sword hanging.
They build resilience through survival,
Fighting hatred on arrival,
Gives them the strength to carry on;
They don’t need access to the riches,
They know how to cope with life’s glitches.
So, pity the poor millionaire
They need the opulence and grandeur
Of that warm house and fast car,
Their surrounding sycophants for ego,
Creating a placebo for their character.
We don’t need to torpedo their income
For the sake of the immigrant
It’s trickle down economics!
Let them be fickle, give them your biscuit…
Pity the poor millionaire
Pity The Poor Millionaire
Modern Living
The flapjack softens
The hole of the doughnut… gone
Sultanas replace raisins
Custard more common than jam
Shortbread is now billionaire
Hot chocolate luke warm
Penguins, only a biscuit
Our pleasure, now illicit
We decay like desserts
Lost in a sea of cost
As the fridge death rattles
Alexa shouts, “Let them eat cake”
Best before date?
A satirical wish of a time gone by
Summer Sweats
Summer makes me want to sing, I’ll break out into song
Birds return
Skins burn
Flowers bloom
Sausages doomed
Mowers drone
Nipples shown
Arses paraded
Eyes shaded
It all feels better when in full swing, and nothing feels wrong
Summer brings a joy of mine, some think that it’s a sin
Shoes heat
Roasting feet
Toes sweat
Feeling wet
Sock threads
Skin embeds
Difference gone
Becoming one
It all combines over time, its where my fun begins
You slowly open the laces, letting in the air
Tongue retrieved
Foot breathes
Shoes dismissed
Rising mist
Breath gasped
Material grasped
Peel away
Sensual foreplay
Give up your praises, no feelings can compare
Take it real slow and peel it down to the toe
Careful hand
Each strand
Tip caught
Tension taut
Last tease
Feel release
Reluctant escapee
Pulls free
The sweaty sock, you know, leaves you with a post-coital glow…
I’m off for a fag