I apologize for my offensive tweet. I know that my words caused real harm, and for the next two weeks I will be spending time in reflection, meditation, and  healing yoga at my Colorado ranch. I am also donating $100,000 to Black Marxists Anonymous.

I humbly ask forgiveness for the insensitive remarks that I made on my friend’s 1985 middle school yearbook page when I was 13. I know that my words caused real harm. There is no excuse for my poor judgment, and although my supporters mean well by pointing out that I was an adolescent, I do not agree that I should not be held to the same standards as a contemporary adult. I have spent time with my pastor examining my deep sinful nature.

I regret my costume at the Met Gala. I know that cultural appropriation causes real harm, and for a white woman to wear a dress adorned with feathers is an insult to Native Americans. I have auctioned off all of my turquoise jewelry and donated the proceeds to a Diversity, Equity and Inclusion Committee studying ways to improve BIPOC representation on the Met Gala planning committee. I have engaged a Native shaman to guide me to a path of understanding via guided Ayahuasca use.  

I take full responsibility for standing next to Ned, my former best friend, in the photograph that has recently emerged of us at a friend’s wedding last year. Ned’s inexcusable remark on Tuesday that “All lives matter” is deeply offensive to me and today I join the diverse community that is boycotting his performances. I am ashamed that I ever called this person my friend.  

I regret ever working with J.K. Rowling. She is a transphobic hatemonger who deserves our scorn and contempt. I realize that she will continue to espouse her bigoted views, because her fans do not care, Harry Potter lives forever, and she’s a billionaire who probably lives in a castle. But I will continue to post my outrage on my Facebook page so that…anyway, Rowling *****!

Existence of rooftops, pentrooves & pentup angst
(I am spectral, tenacious, teneral Spiderman),
banging my head against unwell updraughts
from Bat Pleb City below.
My pigeo'lante perchspective is
dibble-vizzle-proof bartizan:
noone watches the watcher
who watches the aggro.

Bug guy goggles glued to Burberry busters
(wiggas, birdshits, los gueros son guano),
all the homicidal Waynes 'n' Darrens
are in my violent Stylite sights.
Above the chatoyancy streets,
keeping dog & keeping doggo,
till some hue & cry cries out for
an unhinged spandexy lychnobite.

W/ acrospastic techbrechyerfeckinique,
blunderingly I brachiate,
oppidan orangpendak
blowing his crypto-
zoological cover, along
stumblesome slackline I tried to angulate
outta the grapnelhook gun
on which I blew my crypto.

Down to streets of infinite provocation,
to twitchells of selfsale th'asbo-
cratic pleets long ceded to the
NEETS. Yet sherlock qualms
hinder me not, I'll kapow
the crapow outta yobbos
because even the most innocent Molotovs
betoken behavioral ******.

Tonite, a fairish thot is quarry for
her embonpoint, harried thru Bat Pleb City
by Nickelodeon Cottons, ratboys
on the ravish. Tomorrow,
gammoflakes can testify before the
Left Behind White Pupils Committee,
but tonite Wee Willie Weinsteins will
be stalkers stalked amid my terra indigo.

'Oi, wozzat?' Dread froufrou of my
shrobed 90s trench ****** honcho's
silver maggot-embossed rat ear.
Badly I slink, heavy as irony
of Eddie Brock dying of kuru. Still,
the first tearaway is K.O.'d ,
as my ol' A-Team vertical ***'s rush
lowers him to the flagstone velocitously.

Another babyface hood was heard to
hastily nuncupate that his
sister could have his bedroom
once the mortal beanjuice flowed,
for I came at him w/ gowpenful
of Ginzu hilt. Loutish homies missed
his last request, skidooing aceldama-
arama rubylubed by new pantomaim hero.

So what they didn't carry lengs
or nanks or a ******* tyranno-
sawnoff? They may very well have been firefly
kids from the orphanage, but lone
blartlette found bull's noon bullocks
minacious I bet. Besides, I torpedo'd
my speechbubble, skipped ad quipping.
Incommunicommando, I switched my phone

to a solemn volume, honoured the fallen
Shane Thing, Gary Driver or Jordan Boi
I stabbed up for the Public Good. L/
vinyl pylons glinted vertical ghettos,
yet I'm relegated to a drainpipe
for my victorious coup d'oeil:
grapnel gun from Taiwan's jammed! Behind
extemporising droogs, there's a maestro

of malfeasance, the unmoved mover of mens rea.
Big Bads own plazas, dontcha know?
Kingpin of Bat Pleb City is Michael ****,
Nighttime Industries Association President.
I'm not Tony Martin cosplaying as
a pine marten w/ mundo ammo,
loco yokel. Underworld Strombolis
are firststringers superjacent,

I've grasped that (a criminological
redpill I necked l/ a nettle capsule).
I'm only spilling blood l/ it was
pick 'n' mix & - **** my nutso gusto
- pick 'n' mix mixed w/ the blood,
because rough justice is my brooding fuel.
Not piquerism. Or ephebephobia.
In the straight & narrow shadows

of respectability, Michael **** is cloaked.
Pathetically fallacious balenio
hints l/ holy hell at turgid flashpoint
within my relatively roidfree breast:
all sarcoline steel, I must **** Michael
**** for killing a beloved anthropo-
morphic McGuffin (wife, brother, foster
cousin). That's my beat 'em up quest.

But Michael **** is a Dr.Jeckyllroy
& Mr. Hyde 'n' Silk dissembler,
whose crooks scam nannies in the nooks
& crannies, whilst craven sparrow-
cops prefer busting Pret-a-Manger
Boy Floyd, crumb thief. Rozza choppers
must be his rumoured moles in high
places, searchlighting for barrio Zorros

such as me & Mark Fowler, cockney Shadowhawk,
who kept his armour under his barrow,
until his T-cell countdown relived him
of duty. No volucrinal disruptors,
us nonsupedup apterous dogooders
(under fallaciously pathetic balenio)
duck th'other stringy bolts w/ which
bacon budgies sempa supra our parkours

of duty (no bus subsidies for fleeing the
authorities). When my sable sense
of stealth secures me a momentary
stable sense of self, a centring vertigo
upon some ad hoc Gotham-grotty mirador,
then relative omniscience,
my sentry's shufti at the sinful ginnels,
the maffickers & mollishers beneath the prow

of perching knees, is a prelude to purgative
pisgah of subdued streets, crime rate zero.
His racketentacular stranglehold
I'll spikebozzle, I'll knife, throttle my
way thru to crime-Chthulu, Michael ****.
Acharné city on the hill, brute euno-
mia will takeover your toytown macoutes
& sniktable mooks (numberless ninjas/ninjae).

Should 1 of my upstanding chivs
breakoff in some chav's sternum,
nil poinard, I'm still as hard as
Medusa's nits. Whammo!
Fists (& pantherinely jockstrapped ******-
berries) l/ knosped squids will disassemble
latrociniums
of assembled hooliwags & scalligans,
sent spartling l/ tanto-

ny tarantulas. Exfiltrates stage left,
                                    (I'm spectral,
tenacious, virile sterile neutrino),
holy Goetz untraceable as patsy ****,
Jamaican Rolf, secret son
of syuzhetsam woven by Weird Freddie's
west wings of whoppers. Aeo-
lian witness intimidation:
wheeliebin not foreseeably going on

any wheeliebinges, overturned,
buffetted across the urban Ténéré
l/ a 70s coproll performed by
a choadnosed dalek (R2-*****).
Corpses & other *******, ******* &
other corpses, of my laudable lethal myway leeway
say about as much
as Harpo.

Everything imaginable creaks. Nooks possibly
stoop. Holes definitely cringe. No-
cifensive noshows are offenders, now razorjolly
Rhadamanthus p'lices stacked Rachmanism
that's Bat Pleb City, this Erewhon Wen
only a Michael ****-killing blow
can deliver from rife reoffending rates.
Rough justice cures recidivism.

'I was born postimpressed,
a stillborn aesthetic.
Life has been l/ watching Death
warmedup *******,'
bitterly bragged Peter Peters' guest,
monologuing w/ nihilistic pride.
Nabokovonymical host was engrossed...
streaming **** & the Chipmunks,

bluescreen comatose.' 93, his last GCSE
- Peter Peters had skinnedup &
saunteredout, legendarily.
But skidmark creep, shouse grinnows,
his flat's allover flow legendferally
foregrounds how Pete's really not been
living the dream since '93
to all but the autodeipnosophist.

'Such had-I-wist for pollyannaish
mannish boy I wasn't! Lad sans
wearish nebbish deathwish,
but had-I-wist, alas, it's gibberel,
                                     doggerish!'
the visitor wallowed outloud.
Steep existential vigorish,
a lifetime's Dutch feast, had already
  
reduced the host to dregs (& a revolvingdoor
for such loud loners
to his oftrevolving, everrevolting lounge).
Poor Peter Peters
was a radiorental sellospectacled rubicund ranga,
an overmedicated overselfmedicated 1/2dead deadringer
for a Chucky from 'Rugrats' ****-me
wolves on **** had mostly babysat. Writhe writer
of ramblin' meanwhile only parsed

his own meridden merooned megarding
mequations, (m)egomaniac w/ no selfesteem
pootling & pranging & pillartoposting
negative value drivers,
l/ a partypooping
clay coupé in a recurs-
ive culdesac, Droste Close. No instressing
undents a jebends's deadend selfabsorption.

Rather he nudges terps down thought throat of Peter P
the grave drivel way, blahblahbludgeoning Pete further
& further away from echt entelechy
& nosce teipsum. Further&furtheraway from today's
gravel driveways, the ache of actuality,
hard paths smazed over by the dusttrail
mustygale decades post-'93.
Further, festinately faraway

from the melanic drillbits, boring corneas
of the boring, melanoiac, garrulous
para-
suicide, blithely ringside to Pete's real whitelight
highlightreel. 'I know, I know, having a
Jabberwiki complex myself, grybraking &
crocaby slobe it is too,' absurved
the windy imaginationbag, full of a life deadtotheworld.

Haecceity's bleeder, lastrites leadtime leecher,
whose inattention didn't even breach the
                     perimeter
of danaparamita, didn't even heed the
sallow buccal dimples when last chugpot wheeze, a
reptile's baked Quranic sigh won long breather
for swisscheesed bellows belonging to RIPeter.
A listener stricken by a strickling speaker
talking him to death, fatalism's forcefeeder.

Aquamarine *****, another predawn start,
another day in a house
w/out adult education or my art.
A life w/out an internal life.
Sugar & screens, sugar & screens

screams Dolphine.
O unutterable folly
to fancy a morning
sans the psy-ops gavage,
3 hours of 'Ben & Holly'.

Next it's to the playground
w/ Dolphine in the doldrumming
mizzle, twice daily milling
about rainy, ****** Dogshit Island.
Tenderly I admonish her
not to mount the wiped ladder

of the still treacherous climbingframe.
Cue today's 3rd tantrum,
this 1 ploughing a woodchip angel,
wriggling supine amid the ******'s muesli.
It does not amuse me

when she scatters a fistful of woodchips
backwards straight down her pink shriekhole.
I carry my increasingly heavy lil' Calpol
Calpot home, woodchip flecks
l/ spiders w/ their legs pulled off,

bodyboarding out of her
tyrannical drool-grilled piercing pink
shriekhole. Awww,
my monotone soothes.
The woodchips & the dogshit,

the ravens & the daisies
I shall be revisiting way too soon.
Home. But home is not so homely
at the moment, no sanctuary
from the selfaccusatory dereliction of duty

in a parent's resentment.
It's taboo as correcting a transgender  
that the cuckoo's not in cupped areas, just in their
cupola; tacenda as decrying a LiKKKudnik
for a lying wolfcrying nogoodnik.

But less innocent than a baby
or the babyless, I'll say it:
toddlers are hell.
Yet to wish them gone or unbegotten is also
hell. To fail them, hell.

My jeans & tees are instantaneously
soiled by her food, her ****, her drool,
her playdough.I haven't slept more than
six hours a night or in the same bed as Dolphine's
mum for over 2 years (we're still together).

When my sugarrushing
insolent dependent,
Generalissima Dolphine,
my cherubic beast sleeps,
am I consoled

by a profound contentment
unknown to nonbreeders,
or is it just respite
from a daily dissimulation
once unnecessary hence unimagined,

but far, far more crucial
than the old juvenile game
of simply deceiving myself
or a senior figure at an institution?
Anybody get the number

of the bubba juggernaut,
pram jam in the hall of days
Papa Panther paces
l/ helicopter aces
overhovering struck down khaki crazies?

Every day l/ the 1st hour
of 'Kramer Vs. Kramer'.
Sylvia
must have been a genius to write
any poetry whatsoever

w/ 2 ankle vampires.
But she failed to master
Parenthood 101:
morbidity is strictly
verboten.

Dolphine, Dolphine,
the world's most beautiful animal
cub, your Daddy's not a *******,
more of a snowflake greybeard dad, humbug
who loves you & wouldn't ever leave you

in the park. There's 1 set of footprints
in the woodchips to prove it.
When you've grown out of shulking out,
you're gonna have to watch out for the real *******:
the men behind the sugar, the men behind the screens.