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me and the Cee metat dreambodytherapy, She
speaks in Oursleep. my Real Dear
zeys, 'mmmm... Fearof theedge...
zzzz...'S onlyedgeof thefear...',
She wants me ta wake up. This may the eighteenth
notat my madeup wake,
where i attend dod-
dypollened, or more gen. doddypollpothead, withan eighth and a teenth.
Was with Her,

so franzfer-
dinandand
thepresidentsoftheunitedstatesofamerica
­ must rewindand replayand rewind
the very wind, play like twisted zephyr
for all a solarsystem of todays, galaxy of tonights, for us
two's fourstepping eternity. Fruity lasagne
dintevah sloide dan moigulletso smoov gurl,
as when its constituent crunchplants were
processed

by those holdsome hands o' Yers - Hers. Where i note how
nourishin' mothernorfolk is,
anddash tajoina denomination o' winterdeists that only
worshiptheir goddessinthesun
in season, frum  Dairum -  troshin' down your freeways, tractor vectors roam...
Hollowchrome sindy'ssaucerspan
circemblem of inspinning worriesbeensaton  
be Cee's fidgetated silver ring with modest turquoise band.
Her sole adornment, She twiddles with it like
She twiddles with me, on elliptical
bidness round littlebitlittler fingers than mine. And Her thumbs - up,
worthmore than two suns, sun

and a backup sun! Her hands are a new universe
     - area ****, universal, utilisaverse
plunged inta'n old universe
of dishesshining. Th'argent,
digittery - neurotically mobile - hoop of hoolyandfairly
ardency on its mundane apogee, the sideboard.
One ring not two, spun o round cross thr'eachof
Her melodies' reachlands. Her fingers
gripped become my planet, gripping like voyagers one and two
looping the loopy planets. With hands

i hold violently, for Her grabbers are rare, aren't grabby.
Thru peavyhetting i'll be their encraggler, for our chiro-
genit'-two-guild o' two intershakin', who felt gilt  - new guilt'd be Youless.
We forged ******* gaunt-
lets ta slap the washingup, ******* armour nitid too tight for
the ghost of love ta infiltrate. Is the isn'there
instant Ceeghoes?  Who ghest this ghost isn't e'en pearly juxtaposed
'gainst great invalid vanilla measurement,
th'indefinite whole ghost in bloodyicecreambelievers' reali gioust beliefs?
Me, who lie if in Ceelessness, coz Hands
thatdo dishes even outshine angelicorpses
only as aeviternal as pictor'al citadel of god's milkteeth,
Hers - mine do something completely disherrant
with mildew fairy liquorice.
4 CJ
Wanna tygerskinrug tymemachine
for non-tragic carpet ryde
'cross the meltin' clock stream.
Rhynestone tymelyne HG couldn't prophesy,
one where Milton Keynes is the new New Orleans.

Some of us can't get over
how much we ****** at being 17.
Send myself back a Kyle Reese shrink,
preshrink tiger sniffles of spleen.

Sow wyld paradoxes, flog dead groundhogses.
Marty & the Doc
patsies for end of days.
I'll elbow Al, selfish Sam Beckett.
Scream will the butterfly effect afflicted.

Some of us can't get over
how much we ****** at being 17.
Send myself back a Kyle Reese shrink,
redestine kitten smithereens.

Shades of grey of history
frame our immortal sinchronicity
for a cryme: tyger strypes of tyme!

Ret-connaissance, chrono camo,
crossroads where Norwich
'came 2nd Seattle:
tyger strypes of tyme
burning bryte on tyme!

Ret-connaissance, chrono camo,
in the forests
of the snooze button
burning bryte on tyme!
Tyger strypes of tyme!
Aug 2017 · 563
Old Den Day
I remember my old den,
1 I had at 7 or was it 10,
anyway back when I were a lad,
sugar-rush-subsisting on Blackjacks ‘n’ Fruit Salads...
O I wanna desert the unticked boxes of women and taxmen,
live more simply thru emotional regression,
sprint like a prepubescent in plimsols back to th'ol den.
To my oldest den, givvus a seaty or a crossy
on a time-machine,
t'where the doorman's dividend
was a sticky-fingered Panini sticker.
 
Now, I'm no cod-bucolic evoker
of lost rustic youth 
bittersweetly down the zeit-chute
à la A.E.Housman - th'ol den weren't that sylvan.
Suffice to say, those were the days
when a Snickers bar was known as 'Marathon'
- th'athlete's choice of choc, if said athlete's an arrers man! 

Has the old den been forgotten by Hooknose Horan,
him and his cretinue of foetal footie hooligans?
Child hoodlums long before hoodies 
became the in-thing for politicians,
Horan and his henchkids were budding
hootball fooligans,
such bittle lastards that years later their victims
sic spoonerisms on th'abhorrent children, already rotten,
who routinely trashed our den (tho’ to be fair,
was bit doddery in mint condition).

But gaps prechavs gratuitously bashed
me and my gang as routinely rethatched.
The two wooden pallet 'walls'  we'd propped
'pon oldden modcon burl or jutting chaparral
the Council left to feral fallow;  these we stood up again, 
insulated anew with brushwood, with rubbishwood,
deadgetation and also vegetal vandal fistifulls, fascicles
of thicket and false-oat-grass.
Proper little humans,
we had whatever we could uproot and dismember
from derelict plot copse, from crumbs of rus in urbe
only brats and cats might deem dead ringer for Nature,
being of sufficiently small stature.

A child's a cherished imbecile,
whose thinking, mistaken, magical,
is that 10ft sq. woods of wasteland weeds,
a weedland waste of public space
be playground pastoral. All summerhols,
we urchin woodsmen
terraformed ‘n’ pleasuredomed
a strip of bric-a-bracken and hairy brome,
but olddenners got older soon after,
and each went their separate ways
(on solo scavenger hunts for bongo bushes,
by same preteen pangs presaged).

Been sc'autumns since then,
and tho' th'old den survived Hooknose,
 obsolescence and yobsolescence
spent out in 80-odd changes of season
is certain demolition. But I'm gonna bivouac
at the old den site tonight,
like a big kidiot/ noble savage/ *****/
***-offender Akela on the lam.
Just hope a phone-mast ha'nt been mount
atop the old den's old spot,
the green green grass of home
radioactively sallowed into a sickly straw,
unfit but for feedbag of Pestilence's fleabag steed.

Kids are flids indeed: I assumed I'd grow up a whitebread
hero, a debonair dibble and worldfamous nonsmoker,
married to merry widow, Queen Di,
 but I'm ghettoised, Aldi-Lidl-and-Nettoised, in a bedsit
the National Trust wou'nt even bother to blacklist,
injecting ephemera into peepers that don't even feel
the lidl prik of TVquik. Yeah, when Time's simpleton in short pants, I took it as given I'd court the Lord Mayor's daughter,
and rake in billions doodling for the Beano,
but now I'm a man, my masculinity's in doubt
coz I don't care whether Worthie let Greeno
go, or Fergie Keano...Waitabout,
my manhood had fell into disrepute
even as a boy: at th'86 boomerang campaign
of Browny's Canaries, dint go ****-a-hoop
and hoop-a-**** and back again,
nor all handwringy when Stringy whammed Steve the Bruce
on transferlist  (no snip, but future Sir Hairdryer bungdabung,
topflight travail and tired'n'emotionals yet t'turn Fergie's phiz
tomatone as 'is Red Devs' kit). But I desist... 

Those were the days when we called Starburst 'Opal Fruits',
when I could file manhood under 'Future Point, Moot'.
O Mum, give me my tetanus then drop me off
by bitty boscage on Notridge Road, and into Bowthorpe
undergrowth will I redelve
- I'm rebuildin'! Given it a few decades,
but I don't fit in. More my own master then,
waybackwhena olddenner,
more my own master when I was looked after,
when it was de rigueur that I be looked after,
coz kids can be feeble leeching dreamers
without blame. Arduously unshed crying shame
adults unlearn easy option of crying away shame,
coz conscience as constant culpability corrupts,
till, as if our own conks, we cut out our ducts!
Why earth of our ubiquitous probation's scorched!
Mischief moist in the eyes of our early days, decried
dries out into short sight - the right ice, left drought
- that sees sere any throat whose cold comforting's croaking
the croaked commandment all ears hear first,
'Thou Must Play Nicely'. O I can't adjust
to everyone else's loss of innocence, so backta th'ol den
I'll rebeat Lil'-sander's track.

From the Big Boys' world I abstain: growing up's a ****'s game.
'Pleasures are like photographs: in the presence of the person we love, we take only negatives, which we develop later, at home, when we have at our disposal once more our inner dark room, the door of which it is strictly forbidden to open while others are present.”
― Marcel Proust, In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower
Aug 2017 · 349
FU, Mr.Stork
*******, Mr.Stork,
for this short changeling, shopsoiled babe,
tho ' I did ***** a psychotic hobbit,
guess I'm partly to blame.

I'll see this burden thru, do a hatchet psych-job
- of that, Mr.Stork, sir, have no doubt.
I solemnly promise each latest boyf
inalienable right to kick 'n' clout.

And of course I'll do all I can myself
to browbeat anklebiter into angsty beta ****:
everyday I'll repeat that he doesn't match up
and all he was good for was bad luck.

Frogs and snails and puppydogtails
are what alpha males are made of.
And beta ***** are mummy's boys,
but alpha beta *****, epsilon omega poofs

are made of pure love. Who idealise
mum's love denied into panacea with desperation.
As if Tim Mouse in the nellie-carriage, belles recoil
from eau de pathos, anti-pheromonic incel perspiration.

O he'll turn the other cheek
to shield from Social Services one with the red hand mark.
Scratching at the shed door like he miaowed,
or locked out on the patio like he barked.

Puny pure love is wet lettuce Y-front chromosome
when gals froth their gussets over flash pants fascists.
Even Pavlov and De Sade having a stab at being *** dads
couldn't rear such a magnificent *******.

My sadsack lad'll be lonely till end of his days
- let's toast to that, Mr.Stork, 'ear, 'ave a drink!
You know you're kinda **** for a heron's cousin,
and that beak must be at least 10 inch...

Yeah, I know the beta brat's blahrin',
but miserable little **** might as well get used to it.
**** me, Storky, you saucy ciconiiform
(say, did you know 6 billion sherries have rendered Santa impotent?)

And tho' I wish you'd airdropped this Wednesday
child in China or County Cork,
I'll swear on the Bible that my new bloke, Nigel,
didn't bop my nancy boy a shiner in County Court,

coz having his Ma beat that beta meh into him means
he'll sing 'Beat me outta me', beaten at sixteen.Job done.  
Storks and vultures, hens and harpies: birds of a feather.
When he tells you to ******* too, Mr.Stork, rues birthdays, I've won.

And if some myopic dumpling on heat should plop a grandkid
by miracle of stork stones or broken home or drunken need,
so sadistic fleet of Stork & Sons Limited delivers
generational cycles of dissatisfaction guaranteed.
Asifin rectiserial devotion of robots' rows,
one of those innigglable enigmatronic joes
too technical ta takeanickel,
was lice wed to bridewelling
industry of automating.  

A disgraced biotech nacnit art,
psyboggy and sci-
boggling bodywork of c ut-
ter t'ings, cute tongs
of a roblotchy klimtin machine
for flinching, fearmilking my clover machine
- 's crap, mottled gizmo garden
of a desultory heart.

Falseaddress au naturel.
Where discalced fleshlings wozrobbed
of underfeetfeeling dewy slickback.
and springrandy kaliedoscamps,
flowers ragandbonerainbowed
as debutant tramps,
were mercurywatered with metallicnausea,  
till leperfect epilepetals petaljackable
by autumnmaton's throttle.

From whence woody wires, steel stipes, piping steampunk roots
s                p              r                    e        ­  a               d
their cybernetic spandages the strugglength
of breedingbandages, dayseized exponentially
by minecraft boughs like blocky and straitened boa cons.
S           p             r              e                               a                          d
- lesslike medisun's strength o' pharaohalloy honey
when i phinx of cryptstrypt egypt
atleast eqypt by skygold for tourruinsism,
but as stains stramineous
s                       p                       r                            e                       a                         d
when it blinking turnedout lice was
notso fonziewonzie robocub on the blink,
who'd ochreleucously aqua adverse tyzertyger-
stainson his 'cactusgun jack' character peepeejays.
Or like lank swathes
of hay insanelysprayed
by a leafblower with an asian's stamina.

Ah, Indelicacy! And Indélicatesse, a spathe's a spathe!

Except when it's conflicted kitbash for technomantic
terraformers, a robotany of jokes.
Peelback theirradiated diamondalmondnoded
circuitboardedup nonchthulucene sod,
- whether animal skills of oenomal skells digging their own
skeltels or servomotors or vine pulleys do the job
- and bimanal clangour of any claque'd clock
my 'chine's more tethered t'an untilled
tone than a sweeneypea  of rookierighteousness,
or a smaragdine skiff for seashocked oclaphiles
and banjoesgreened whilst a nesteggedhivedivingfelinophile
twoots. Green, aye,  taste of me sown oddwozobb-

jectionidyll, immaturenettle
slobotically slubgraded
ta passionrust like intranettles
of cobaltglancefrom
exitwoundingeyes.
i shoulda wilted empowered by an err
at such phat pathos,
but a yah bouquet of carrotstickflowers
beautyknotted carat and styx
and int'allforgotme knotsinmystoma 'chine,
decompoozed vin tij,  pints.

Once upon a zone of overgrown zonality,  
couldn't see, so now youseehowfar me 'n' Ceejay've mown
feckclod unclad, tilled till dishabille, bald the land
o' ruderal youthwhere i sawed my shrink
and saw halves in having.

Half bullchaff, half trashfinch...
Surprise. And nosurprise! Cropper.
And notacropper! For Cee's lovepimpedup her mechanibullish  
lyborg int'a lawnmower o' liberty
- ta badassvertise? No lice, lice sellnever
license ta liesellers hissenses, or ask r kelly
- tho' ark'd go with  'I believe iconfly-
mo'! Ee-yyyyyelmm! With a
'la shyzer vert!', advertised busters of sighs

- alsays ' Way: buy two sighs to make sure you fit'.
No now i vum ta vroooooom,
Mevrouw, with Our zimmer of choppers,
hack dripripe the naysayingvines, rerunning necks of...
And **** the dusty keptoutoftouchwith grass off.

Dislodge this android's figleaf
seeds of dehumanisation rigged.
Couldn't automoultit with forays
inta spores' ways when i was
transeasonally beswitched,
when greenmicrosystems of nanoedens
were clogged subroutines of nanoiddiction.
But then all uvluvs were unCeezenned ,
dint swiv indelihelic utters like Hernewbroom of cupes's
vrooming atsuch toureutic scriptures of brass bracken,
my artificial indelicateligence
strictured
like a caterpillar called icarus
on a heliotrapeze in a pod, suchwas  
the ferrous fallow of a fobbed hurtphobe 'bot.

But i'm suretimesdataset deadcertsquared
me and Cee've mown
junkjungley techamech nonatural zone, shorn
the me grownfrom an overblown underblown
green iron frown. Ee-yyyyyelmm!
Leaves turfshag of fironilings and waultyfirings
with a blendered slenderness  
where once i met a foe who may be
mentalic, meta-faux, but
'smown obsolete mode, old mould.    

But irenderno ambigcruelty, tuts 'wards
swampthing scrappile
of fibroushusks and computercasing,
cellulose memory and memorybankserasing
-  holograins and veins of my leave-
rs i guess i'm half still.  

   But blessed greased blades endawn
the manydayed plain,
ephemeral emerald still a jewel of renewal
that grows gaining agains that grow dif-
feroruntly from the planted pain.
Sungta'll growtasingta likewhirs - as a sprinkler
salted with returnreturns spinsipt t'pisnips  
- and'll oo-oo-whir like 'twern't no wistfulagedperson's
choice of radiostation.

Nowhowdoes my wrecktech omzig nedrag nonfunction verywell
thankyou funny. But am i totallytender,
setoutta bedelved, dugupenter a harvest of sacrifices yet?

Unaware i'd go onta twobloomtown till: where
did my potplantmeccano mashmish maelstroms of waif ROM;
green cogs and rams programmed ta mum and ham;
cabbudgets and letuscysts say the bells of synthetics;
barddrive boughs of the elmth and bowels of the nth:
******* boughs snapping to slaphead branchcollars,
scattering tyreswings of prostheticlimbpanzees
draggedup ta see limb, climb byes,
bite my every family with a damocles firewall of familyjungle surgery:
g...

o insecuritybreachwhere Her loveliness and lovely sweat chopt
and swept awaythe forsolongkept

will-ta-argue, that had for so long kept
my will arguing,
arguing with the ground
about my grounds forarguing withthe wither-
ing, stareswallowing, stair-
faced ground, no groundparent but wildneighbourhoodwatcharenakillingfloors
of hugboun-
ties time's toughlove chainsawed
offasifwith fredwardwolverscissorkrugerine,
morsal handshake a-hanching.
Mortallowmatic morsels of digital farewells  
removed by cornhead and rural roomba
of chutzpah purer than a gandermooner's,
Her mower the answer to my metalvegetal pinocchioprayers,
Her mower the overgrower of my loverphobia
and nova sower of dingleydells,  fluffy squelchy seasons,
vegetarianovourous forests of vitalism
and lurching lovers' poncey meadows - real ones.
4 CJ
europaroma roams 'hole o' ol' erf
in a sick bay's shower.
i joust, pasang, auteur...
Less there's
emergency paddock on a padang in deepest penang
where a poet might enhang up and enhangover
a bullshouty parangular
gush eng. gu cheng brain.
For shame! Don't stampede labyrinthine,

minopasangotaur - there's a c utoff charge
of impediments.
No c utoff charge f'rimpediments! Must o bundobustle
all the obsty bulls
hit in a belfry, rubblizing rings: bokk-ONG!
Pronk-****! Prang-BBONGG!
Shuntput all your ibexes in the one all-
terrain andnohow noknowhowishly set
joltheads off in lofts i bexen they'll lower ta
rubble lies.

Bullzinger: was bulsh/shy mouthbull of a man!
Then again, again, i was not yer bumpologically striking
averouge runnerat redrags, i was bottom of panto minotaur.
With a donkeydome,
rude *** health a shelf gored
- 'Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee.
Thou art translated!' ta quote quince -
autopilot beast and automaton burden
that'd reinaway at redpads, unheed fall ofall the inviting
moorish matadaughters. Non-
cowgirls w'also here, mensurating
their oestrus of antioxbitch tics
out in limp pumps, thim blungfuls,
reedy thin insounds of redsides whirring
out their whirth
i hadn't heard - perverse!

Linedead by blabyrinthe walls of a slump,
o daily braying prayereating
darkness onallsidesof hoarse Bull X,
Time ta Timetwo was the dark-ta-be for me,
         me for me ta be
squandered, borderline bard a lame
used tomb being
with no poet's two morrows,
no bi-mañanas poseablethumbs allow.  
But bimanal sands of evanescence evernascent
swon nows now: this was Clare-obscurity of darklonesome longsome Ago:
****** everywhere was over, there
under a distinctly unthere.

Under ozone ox id, hate
as drowsy and bizarre as prayer - by my dearest gods it was stale
as christianity! o my Dear Guard
now receives my love for Her, like a safe butting not a southern 'But...'
It'll be this love of recency even
in the Whenthingareasevenasfailedeverbes
- when we'll all even relieved, ex-ever,
halcyon as hay, wover' like wickerbulls
for weak bulwarks 'low an oilspulyied welkin,
when savaging soil on the seeds' side streamlets in like steamjets
of a spring unexperienced,  loads same subsight foul,
and we're all o ta outer nothingwith nothingin
annihilated without somuch as heroic overandout,
like those 'dimanches de décembre'
when i could not care for life and death's raw hide 'n' seek - i'll remem-o:
Love Came Thru Outta Darkness, that's Light Of What Was Not To Be
So Bad Much Longer.
4 CJ
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCgUItSbSmo&feature=youtu.be

Scarfaced stripper
hungup her crackpipe & glitter.
Cashcow kielbasa kisser,
now frigid as a widder.

Of her all a giver like her **** was the Gipper,
but now she's living in her slippers, vaping w/ the vicar.
For up to his moniker, who was the liver?
Jack the Willywhipper! Really willywhipped her.

Smellin' salts you better get sniffin
- you been the victim of a serious willywhippin'!
Anyone get the number of that big rig?
By a serious ***** she been whipped.

Phantopera masque
wrap the willywhiplash,
but marked **** w/ a heart
met her Mr.Darcy in the dark.

Seemed a nice fella, neglected to tell her
alter ego expeller were Jekyll's enema.
Hyde-helicockter of her beauty robbed her;
Mr. Darcy's whopper really Jack the Willywhipper's!
So i soseldombreak
i maybe snatched - bye - by the sight
of the tartanskunk i'll contribba beaut - oh it dealt
a scotch eggy. And a newt
estimate too, an overstate-
ment in hoverin' state uponviaduct viapond
- behold the hydro-
patetic hindmo of a jumping jesus-
chris' liz.,
shirking submersivesilversurface
in roundstrides o' looneytunezoom-
ingpins, holyclappers!
i've also rarefied a sweat  

- plays as it edges - of
monkeybutters. My monkeybutlers
were prepared, appeared, aped pores,
outing dirt as if dirt were on an outing
zombieporters attendead zombiefresh.
Forceejay, my specifelicity, i'll 'splay

specificity: a
sapajou hatstandsteward
- capuchin in his body's hoody; a chiropodist baboon chiropodicey;
an oddjobgorilla oddlygorilline. Flick with
their fleaflickerfingers thru 'whichchimp' for lice subhumhumman,
creatures seeper whose luggagelunk's an upward
gravedigger - o wiv bare hands? 'S'eywere yesstripped    
as dinner by middl'o' thenigh-
lightlark's squigs of mudorloamnighted softbreakfast.

These be humanconditions, infinaturally: new lessenings
of leprous repetition, retroventure, anticlock rides,
petering out of poopedpetuity, pootling int'ultimuck revultimacy,
till we're nothing's nearests, evenuntoers'  ow!riginal
**** and caboodle. Peop'll beep and bleep and bleed peeled
unrealer and unrealer till every person's removal
when sent too asleep by bedicine of dr.havelds kipman
- hospitalised liein last sting allthelivelongday dig in,
th'endup down mouthfeel for a moving noodle,
4 CJ
I'm a knickerlicker, I mean, my tongue's in a twist
when it's Miss Tiffany Apple I do address.
She smokes furiously, drives 100mph,
& Tiffapple's poison is Angel Sours
- tho' later I met her ex's ex, who labrished
Tiff had sunk more bottlesofvino than tide
at Waxham beach post-examresults.
But I had inkling quidnunc was green-eyed,
eclipsed
by what a wuxom bench Tiff does present
in her favorite
snugfitting
sparklestriped
jumper dress.  

So she whooped me at pool, I wasn't flush
w/ success at fuze-
ball either, Tiff wasn't impressed.
She's one of the lads & I am just a wuss.
Prollysplains why her blackcardied arm
in rebuffing imitation
of Bela Lugosi's dunt stouble
neckerchiefed her lips
when I went into smooch
that beautiful hard face.  

Silver ivy ink
on her alabaster wrists
(ivy as in '& the holly', not intravenous).
Bent over the table, she's snookilicious.
It's a tricky shot, but Tiff's a beast on the baize.
& a butcher at badminton, or so she says:
we never played.
Betja never heard
of Betjeman or Joan Hunter Dunn,
Tiff, furnished but unburnished by
Attleborough sun.  At school,
she was goth gal adorned w/
Jack Skellingtons,
& she still has a goth gal's snowwhite complexion.
Intimations of eleckissity
like that 1st frenchie at school,
but there's no fool like a 35yr old fool.

She's just a kid who thinks it's cool to be a *****,
but, baby, it's so not, not really.
Don't add to life's ***** tapestry.
She's still just a kid, just with a killer ***
- aren't they all when they're barely 20?
Well, can't say mine was,
but you catch my drift.
Still a kid who's gutted Busted split,
tho' I guess I'm still gutted Kurt had a gun
- he swore he dint!
But any kid would have a beautiful hard face
if Daddy was in denial
Mummy's mission
was drinking her remission
into submission, ******* cells back
into malignant fission.

O I am just a jessie,
but she's one of the boys
- in one sitting Tiff destroyed 7 saveloys!
& I am not Matt Willis, alas, what malice
is this? Just the usual:
she's giving me a miss.

But when the last in a lifetime
of crestfallen sighs jilts my body,
& classic rock stations of the future  
give Busted a miss
forevermore,
when Tiff is crabby & wrinkly
-  visage uglier, softer -
she will still be the hardfaced
Venus of Attleborough
in this immortal doggerel.
Form of emotional graymail,
my longrunning answer to imaginary RSVP
that another Dear John over the dog & the bone
sends to that ghoul for my selfdisgust,
who is my real muse:
sorry, Tiffany - it's me.

Tho' were Miss Tiffapple to reperuse
my rejectionprocessing paean
to her flet beauty in an aeon
- when she's crabby & wrinkly, uglier, softer,
it'd be more poignant
if Kindlescreens went crinkly
& chronologised coffeerings like jotters.
For Squadling, 2013
Make my coffin a wheelie-bin,
you won’t even have to dismember my limbs
- short and before my suicide I got real thin.
There might still be space to chuck out my belonging.

Bury me in a compost heap,
don’t put your back out putting this creep 6-deep.
Clothes-pegs at the ready in case it gets whiffy,
if maggots turn up their noses the worms won‘t be so picky.

Inter me in a portaloo
Polish pallbearers back from the pub lug.
Like a Gulliver bartender
mixing a cocktail of poo,
let them shake that shouse
till the undertaker’s gotta
anally bleach back my pallor.

Hey Farmer Karma,
You can sow me, reap me manana…
Mulch of my marrow means tomorrow
to the cabbage and the carrot.
When you’re ***** at life like moi it makes sense
you’re manure at peace.
Mud becomes crystalclear
when death comes as a relief.

Throw me in a mass grave
entirely of my own clones laid.
Or just flytip my cadaver
in a wheelbarra,
who needs the Co-op when you got
council taxpayers?

ACDC do ***** deeds
and they’re done dirt cheap,
so park my carcass outside the tourbus,
fiver clenched in rigor mortis.
Or just wrap my corpse in a bow
for Ol’ Des Nilsen this Christmas.

For my epitaph in the snow you can ****
‘Good riddance to bad *******’.
Or if it‘s too cold to go,
leave it pristine where it coats
and just say you whizzed a list
of my accomplishments.
I appreciate the sentiment.

Hey Farmer Karma,
You can sow me, reap me manana…
Sow me, grow me, mow me, reap me!
Sow me, grow me, mow me, reap me!
Mulch of my marrow means tomorrow
to the radish and the marrow.
When you’re ***** at life like moi it makes sense
we’re manure at peace.
Mud becomes crystalclear
when death comes as a relief.
Fulfillmentis fullfattle, forfull fatheds and fatalcattle,
a fatty lotto o' goodpoints;
andonthetroubjectofpoints: point of demon ted conceit.
Summum bonum essentialdeath's
outercrockhoary innerchildlocked talons
arloike rewroites' rewroi'in,
rites of rereaddin that overplace me my overtheplace
all inside up. Stated the tooth clawly in my own woods

   - what wordsforthetease - i'm a steponpenwerebear,
not some strephonwoof bore,
tho' still rude in truth and clear
nature is not pink. Howev' there is no
stopping care.
Bear it, Cuddlycuticles! i'm teetotal as koalas in their koalakubbutz,
alchummy as limesardines, cubbud buddies inthemidstofthe
blitz.  But kindly less aware
- as smackedup on Ceetotal love as ladies look on the brink
of O. Are they **** aware?

i'm teduardo notquitebearchest tho' razor-
ophobe with upperfrontal overplast ears and eraser-
sharp claws my razorchic Clare's
either wilted wivwuv, or, smeltsmit,
We're one nail

nailingdown the tale of now.  
O theorisers of the sexes' forbearance, functional fondness,
here is my answer:
Her remarks are piercing, Her laughter isn't. Evennow still a wise snowl
- my head's sore, so i must be clever - i amno no-tail no-tail,
no palesnarler or kittenman,
but a fresh pro with a velvetpelt, coat of freshfish!
Fo' tho' th'arno acmeaardeparkstaff-
lunch'nings ta bust one's  sore bear block
- upon grizzly edams or thible it, Goldiglocks's - even
th'even ownership of love
c'nt emasculate and chop
off the entire madness of this badenglish
bigdog-
infested lice.

But like weatherfield's supermakeit-
up, i'm  'freshco' atthemo,
so chase me death ducky, butch with pendingperenniality
in the playground was i.
And dare tadoomme an injustice too tony bairface, lice's already astoundingly
enfranchised by Cee,
4 CJ
Neither love nor psychiatry
got tricks or tenacity to transfigure me
into a drug-free butterfly.
If life and the pursuit of liberty
are such good ****, why aren't I enticed
into cold turkey chrysalice?
If I made it past the switchboard, got my minute with Raj Persuad,
I'd say I am more habit than man coz I was ill-starred
- addiction's but one player at tapioca table of my failures,
and I've never changed for the better before.
 
I'm:
not old flame phoenix burned his partridge ******* off;
not the prodigal son soon his patriarch's boss;
not the artist formerly known as Vincent Van Frog
obits tongued into  prince of avant-garde old rot;
not the Clark Kent who transpires scion of Krypton,
and when he goes cross-eyed, does his own laser eye-corrections;
not **** duckling whose **** gets worn to the bone
thru later over-exposure as a midlife crisis swan;
not bad egg that makes good under the yoke of kizmet,
blossoms into KFC bargain bucket innit;
not the kid who's cuffed 'n' cuffed whilst Childline's engaged,
yet still eschews the Cycle of Abuse - it's Satan's baton-change!
 
So wherefore drug-free butterfly that hatches
en route to a dope-kickin' Damascus?
Daren't unfold a flutter I'd hover even
over lefthand downstroke of the 'u' in 'u-turn'.
 
No re-entry to mentor here, civic harumpher,
straightandnarroristocrat whose bile is haute catarrh,
pillock of the community!
Coz we crooked men only know the way in crooked miles,
don't deserve jeers from Jesus or Jeremiah Kyle,
or the one they call 'Jerryjerry'.
Now, wings of new leaves, one's potential papilionaceous
is natural high they push at Narcotics Anonymous,
but chemical schlemiels relapse coz losers can't be cured
- ain't snapped my fingers and been less crap before!
 
I'm:
not black sheep who scrubs up Baa-barack O-baa-bama
(or even your sentimentalest sweater, knitted by your
                                                           deadest granma);                                    
not this summer's surprise cult hit,
tho' the critics at the preview concurred and had a kip;
not the Strangeways yo-yo who winds up his Folsom blues,
and credits his reformation to the kindness of screws;
no poindexter who in Freshers' week scarce partook,
but fast forward,  four-eyed ***'s Fonzie on Facebook;
not aurum de stercore success-story like the fable
of the goose 'bout to be cooked who lays a golden cable;
not the Chinese Rock star who lives past 27
- Grim Reaper Grammy outrocks rehabby ending.
 
So wherefore drug-free butterfly's eclosion
into denial or Eden, on wings 12 Steps map-pattern?
But I'm a no-show imago, cobwebbed cocoon,
monged a teenage pod of sloth to postpone more misfortune.
2tentacletashed chrome Cthulhu's shrunkenhead of an engine
shrunkenheadlocked by said 2 exhausts like chrome tentacles
tautened.
Leatherette saddle toasty as a witch's familiar in hot tin coven.
Panniers of jetblack fibreglass, some shrouded Schrodinger's
catcarriers ebon.
Sycamores overhang the courtyard walls, primaestival leaves
mantisgreen.
Sanctum sanctorum of the canopy a penumbral hunter's green.
Prima facie: Buddhist biker parkedup for a guidedmeditation.
Or p'haps he (or she) is not proverbial easyrider, karmadumping
1-to-1?
Stereotypes scream readily to mind like silvermachines of
                                              pedestrian
fancy; maybe this hog's a trendy vicar's, parishioner riding pillion
to the heathen Wellbeing Centre for acupuncture crown of ferns?
Whether Hell's Angel of Mercy, Pirsig reader or swami as the
                                          Stig, mystery remains
for visor on the skid lid stayed down tho' 3rd eye chakra might be
                                                                ­     open.
Where cross cliches of the open road & path to innerpeace,
a ***** has been riven
thru which a stranger's authenticity outstretches,
revving my imagination.
Jun 2017 · 859
Compassion Fatigue
I've got no interest in bungeejumping.
I've got no interest in seeing Venice.
I've got no interest in niteclubbing.
& I must be in zen coz I don't care
what zen is.

I've got no interest in winning Euromillions.
I've got no interest in what the Donald said next.
I've got no interest in signing another e-petition.
Or why Sleb Y slighted Sleb X.

I've got no interest in New Yoik in the spring.
I've got no interest in Rothschilds' Beelzebunce.
I've got no interest in silly season 2nd Coming
- you wait ages for 1, then 3 messiahs
arrive at once!

I've got no interest in bumblebee extinction.
I've got no interest in major sports events.
I've got no interest in twitterstorm friction.
Or infomercials on how to get hench.

Got no interest in batrachomyomachy,
or in proxy batrachomyomachy
between Frog League's galanty spider army
& mice-trained & funded earwig insurgency.

Who'll win Strictly, who'll win Syria?
What really goes down in the Ministry
of the Interior?
Does myriad of Miriams mean the more the myria?
Will readers ever eyebibe my biblia abiblia?

Apathy? Yeah. No. Me?
Does Ray Mears **** in the woods?
2 fingers 'stead of 2 hoots? Is oldschooltie
of Pope Emeritus Devil Dog ****** Youth?

Like comeback cul-de-sac of Sigue Sigue
Sputnik or *** Dad, conclusion's foregone:
from all globallocks infer good Earth stravaiged,
testicularcancer twin planet to us abandoned.

When it comes to thinking 'bout anything but my baby...
now Marvin's murdered by me more than 3rd rock solid
w/ mine, confirming findings of 2010 survey
that UK's most content folk are found in Norwich,

pigging out on pizza in front of the idiotbox
w/ their S.O. Shockingly desensitised now my
stake in humanity's love's primecut: a paradox.
Lovely tunnelvision, schmaltzy oblivion, hormonal
co-dependency,

Eros & Thanatos sitting in a tree...
Or in echo chamber built for two, echochambermaid
Aphrodite.
Unobvs reverb of sweet nothings' honeydripping nihilism
of countless folies a deux virgule quatre: atomisation.

Before domestic bliss cult of mutual monomania
decrees we lovers shrug our heartshaped shoulders
& to closed loop of googooeyes go couple-cloistered,
I'll do the world one more favour, vote Labour.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1325759/Happiness-eating-pizza-watching-TV-Norwich.html
May 2017 · 602
Chigwell's Shame (Lyric)
If you've got issues, if you've got baggage:
disadvantaged, disabled, disturbed, damaged.
If you've got special needs, not just sexually...
If you wear bottletop specs, come see me.

I'm perfectly pleasant predator, how do?
Sexpest! But quite a nice bloke too.
I'd hold you close like a creepy volunteer,
tho' my CRB check returned w/ a smear!

If you've got a wooden eye or a glass leg,
check out my mobno & my measurements
carved into the local parkbench.
Undateable, shake your chaperone for normo ***!

The psyche of a child, the physique of a woman
- c'mon, Judge, w'unt you find that confusin'?
dint have
        much ta do
        with
        holdthe handsof
        'ave
            a brew
        with holdwith
        inhumanityorhumanenuzz then. Was a whilescene when        

        my sake had hi stakes of a takeoff, a takeoffof a sake.
            Boshbosh, its sold blood
        seatedstriken by the rife-
            ness as pitiers parked theirs, over an envy-
        constituted committee, principally 'for pity's sake'.
            Where my envy, pity saluted awon other. At the dib-
        bin' out, did it with nothing and mirrors at the ***-
            vying upofmy desire's palmedoff embassies.
         Withwith held 'orrisonant honesty, mipity 'n' myenvy 'came
                                                                ­          clovenfist
            penfriends, shared shadoughy speecheese
        euphemistinkin' of orris-
            root but thesortsorta forridged for raging like chucknorrisfruit.

         Tho' i pitied my envy, i envied all pity. Lacked traffic, 'adno truck
            wiv the dyadic drives of Lurve's
        't'rrific'-lie tragicfucks. As inample as some sparrow's worldle a van
                                                                ­                       squished,
            only passport my vanquished
                   sake did scramble for is Charity Sun.  Howev' with Cee, find-
        ing simply the  –Ing and And of Light is Touch, is Light's
                                    
        sister outreacher, not one of her northernising gifts, such as
                        Ground Ing's nielloware slate.
        Becalmin' shiner, silen' lancer o' chalets and hovels, Charitysun en-
            abled me tatravel see
        
        me in the secondsightofmesunandCeesun
            - a complete pair o' Suns! Ssunned clean
        noonchallenger's nonchalance outta mucky Mr. Meon Mee,
                                                                ­ manstress
                        monster of Of. Ofbull! Burdamn-
        tion-***-burdenption by my beaming bird abated, now i'm
                                                      burdened
                mostly like, but much less than, a man
        - in ways lovetheCeejayway shifts. For more morenow now. An' just
                 more than just more than more adjusted than
        th'averidge averisky averageful loving bully - 'tis a tizzer man
                forgetting ta forgetrid of mighty flighty *****,
        sure all his falls were stairstaged fights. Mightbes smitebe-
        ing,
For CJ
Sphere of spleen on the sofa,
my life is going nowhere,
either there or a dystopia.
Paralympian doper,
paralytic coper,
professional loafer,
semipro croaker.
Looked in the mirror,
the day is getting nearer
I give George Roper
good run for his lira.
ITV3, life now I see
thru prism of a sitcom from the 70s.

Curled up into a ball, hoping for the best.
When I was a foetus I must have been depressed;
last time I remained in position long as this, like
Kelso's hunchback suckling Ms.Pacman's breast.
Curled up into a ball, praying for the end.

Local prophet of doom
made me his gopher,
said I show good prospect
as a real no-hoper.
But I need a reboot,
I need a blacksuit,
more Toby than Topher,
moviestar moper.
But it's end of an era
in supergrass mirror,
I give George Roper
good run for his lira.
ITV3, nostal-algae;
Mildred, won't you run me bath of G'n'T?

Curled up into a ball, hoping for the best.
When I was a foetus I must have been depressed;
last time I played possum as long as this, like
Humpty Dumpty got laid by the angel of death.
Curled up into a ball, praying for the end.

I've abandoned hope like all ye who tune over to ITV2,
but I don't want some hoochie geordie, I want my Mrs.Spoon!
It's hard enough to make it with a couch woodlouse lounge act,
wallowing in my naval, dark side of belly button moon.
Chuggers for the rapture ain't no reason to get dressed,
and the Mercury Advertiser don't merit my Sunday best.
But Mrs.Spoon, dang, like a mild mustang  
(overbite like gawky Mildred's) masticating on that freedom,
my kneehugging gloom's bolted!

Better than I ever hoped, you & I spooned up in a bubble,
them latchkey demons can't dent our snuggle-spubble.
Better than I ever hoped, curled up into a ball with you.
Better than I ever hoped, a bubble is a ball for two.
May 2017 · 1.2k
Purple Gerberas
I went on a date with Abigail from Wales,
now real housewife of Harleston this Belle of Bridgend,
who vacated the valleys for marriage that failed.
Via loveless POF we met in Diss, Betjeman's
'dimmest place of all'.  From her suitor's clammitt
mushroomed blooming cliche from Norwich Market,
which had strived in stuffy, sunny carriage for survival,
but doughty purple gerberas shed not a petal.

Darkeyed Abs was selfproclaimed ditzy witterer
(as schorl as pupils were her carbonado irises).
Selfeffacing, totes Taffy, wellfit witty ditherer;
modest, mumsy, Celtic sexkitten. From Diss,
she drove us in circles to areas even remoter,
cutely got us lost. Upon backseat of her Toyota
gerberas juddered, lost the odd purple petal,
but all my attention was on this anhygoel gal.

Fave date since my old love crashed 'n' burned,
Cupid's evangelism made a lame heart leap!
Attraction and rapport in equal measure earned
a second, no less romantic for being cheap!
We held hands like oldies down the aisle (at Aldi's),
tender tonsil hockey over bigspender coffees
on bench by the mere. Love's pink spark as blatant
as gerberas' purpleness we purred in liplockt agreement.

X-tailed texts from dawn to dusk to discover
something we'd both waited for between Abs & I.
Floodgate touch of third date felt fate to be lovers,
tremulous tryst gushed torrid for the rusty and shy.
With selfconsciousness she'd sometimes squeak in bed
like the springs, and got undressed beneath the duvet,
but as if purple petals coming-storm-shorn, her Red
Dragon-tatted, lemniscate chassis blew me away.

Horizontal hourglass a galactoid goad to caress
- looker like Liz, but with the boyo brio of Burton,
tho' retro 90s vernacular winning quirk less
'Under Milk Wood' and more the orange-Zorro'd turtle,
Michelangelo. Dropboxed me her ******* keys,
elegant lilac-varnished luppers smashed 'Fur Elise'.
Cruciverbalist teachingassistant was my Welsh ****,
but no cryptic clue when gerberas started to wilt.

Abs baked her boy a birthday choco hedgehog,
'Puddington Boar' pun we laboured in flantery email.
But gooey privetpig not main course of our dialogue,
no, I learned she was a Dadi's girl who went off the rails
when his cancer came back for good. Last 'nos da cariad'
haunted her like hiraeth; Abs swore she'd bags a stepdad
for lil' leekeaters, spare them same sense of loss. Green shoots
stalks in vase resembled, save for ditched petals, no roots.

She didn't see offthepeg patriarch to patch a family
in me, dressinggowned putz Diazepampering broken
calon now. No Ant to her Cleo, Gavin to her Stacey
- wherefore the chirpsing 'bout cwtching, softlyspoken
soul-selfies swapped in aprication of darkling embrace?
Abigail just blanks my calls; messages soliloquise in cyberspace.
To so much heart-mulch I bet binned bouquet now rots.
Purple gerbera wheel of fortune landed on she-loves-me-not.
May 2017 · 293
Suicide
Mortal unsportsmanship
fixed at a formative age.
If the game's not going your way,
don't play.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aF5t7OuO2rg

You got a bad attitude,
worse than my cat's cattitude
when I dab my tears on her fur
in the lap of lassitude.
Ziggy Stardust
was a rock 'n' roll platypus,
so I scratch electric platitudes:
her 'ump is an Acme muse.

Her languor louche
unleash my lassitude,
& lassitude is literati for the blues.
La la la la la la la-lassitude!
La la la la la la la-liceytude!

Loving you:
punitive assuetude.
Kissin' ******* altitude,
not lips of latitude.
Your fratchy gratitude,
dark matter jewelled.
But I'm allowed to look at you
- looking ain't no glass lasso!

Her languor louche
funleech my lassitude,
& lassitude is literati for the blues.
La la la la la la la-lassitude!
La la la la la la la-liceytude!

J'accuse Ted Hughes:
Lady Lazarus in lion's mouth of white goods.
J'accuse Ted Hughes:
Assia in lion's mouth of white goods.
There skulks a vigilante called Scumbrella
the urban jungle's answer to John Steed.
1/2 werrr, 1/2 weyyy, a mentally unstable fella,

in chazzashop-dapper togs: no tweed.
His swashbuckling bartitsu umbrawler moves
rotoviolate English Detroit run to seed,

tho' motley movements defy fitzes & sleuves.
At the dead of night, at the scene of a crime,
off scofflaw stage brollycrook hooks youths,

pimpled pitbulls yet to gnaw bone of hard time,
hoodies he hooks into patella in the face,
then jabs bumbleshoot at their custardpuss spines!

As Mez Pops put UK airspace in its place,
gamp glider Scumbrella l/ accipiter swoops
at trainee mugger, now 'Mum'-yeller auto-Maced

(epiphora of cowardice). Trenchcoat cape dupes
Bash Street chavs w/  shadowplay abillowing,
blots out fullmoon for pack of coyot' yoots,

further blinded by brollyspokes set twirling
by borgne majorette of a mean Gene Kelly,
crimefighting in the rain - what a wonderful feeling

to flaconade ferals w/ ferule of umbrelly,
or on evildoer's cupola springshut subumbrella
l/ panoramic facehugger - that should quell any

scally's scritch should Scrumbr'a skirl Rihanna
a cappella (upon umbrellairguitar, a wee noodle).
Since squabashing tall 10-year-old who twocked Fruitellas,

he's sasquatch-scarce once sirens fill twitchells.
Spiceheads & dratchells expand gangland slang glands
at groggy Z-doggs who dogpiled in IRL,

now duffedup triphazard to any backsteet errand-
boys 'n' girls, runners 'n' riders. Digladiation
Oswald Cobbleoddjob-style done, t'Umbrella Stand

pub a heifer of a zephyr his transportation.
No time to spare, as sirens have been replaced
by ambivalent armed response unit's simunition,

pyongyang of bullites onomatopiercing space
stealth deadened in penultimate comicstrip panel.
Later...at pub w/ his have-a-go antihero mates:

Pteropine Man fresh from frightener in the ginnel,
louring at being mistook for that Yank upstart bat
again; the noble *******-ophobe on sabbatical,

by Yewtree interceptions burntout, Madeleine McCatt
his offduty searches' fluffy focus ; snooty of Stella,
Captain Norfolk Black Turkey Magic sat

w/ an Adnams, Charles Random de Berenger's
seminal ruffianbusting manual sole topic
of convo for the Cap'n's workfriend, Scumbrella.

Snickets of recidivism precipitation now licks,
but in phonebox where, l/ Ms. Zellweger,
supers flaunt granny pants leans lost brolly ironic.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6RUiym_0mNM

One day the humanrace
will all be a beige
dullard monoculture
on minimumwage.
The real George Jetson
will **** a hologram,
then skype his priest on Gliese
for some Mandarin Quran.

Love thy neighbour,
but population won't taper,
She wanna be a mama,
& I want
HONGA BONGA HONGA BONGA
HONGA BONGA HONGA BONGA
Bonobo locusts:
vol-au-vents for vultures.
But my ***** hunger for
HONGA BONGA HONGA BONGA
HONGA BONGA HONGA BONGA

One day the humanrace
will all be Grays,
spreading politicalcorrectness
thruout outerspace.
**** Habilis
never missed the helicopter,
but Roswell testtube
can't beat bit o' hongabonga!

When my dinky's dongier,
I don't thinky of the consea-
quences for my descendences
- they ain't even acquaintances!

Hongabonga make the worldgoround,
but in humanbeings I don't wanna drown.
My modernday Morgan Le Fay
used to make love on graves,
now she sleeps all day.
She's a zomballerina in a zombikini.
masking her feelings with mirtazapini.
Dr.Fangoria prescribe the Torah!
Dr. Creepshow prescribe the Gospel!
O baby, do you still believe in All Hallow's Eve?

My costume's got no bonce on,
but I ain't Anne Boleyn.
Chub roll stump for a neck,
how do I sing?
Hole in my head
too whole to scream
'Verminend' to vulture teens,
smells like trick or treat.

This hello how low Halloween
I'm gonna go as a headless axeman.

Sabrina the teenage selfharmer
went to the witch doctors of big pharma.
Me, I swear by traditional eye of newt
- dontcha know Old Cloots is in cahoots with Boots?
Sepulchral ***,
Edgar Allan ***** on your meds.
But baby do you still believe
in All Hallow's Eve?

My costume's got no bonce on,
but I ain't met Madam Guillotine
for a ****** valentine,
1789.
Play chicken with depression,
you might lose your head
on swingers' ouija weekend
with the Livinghyphendeads.

This hello how low Halloween
I'm gonna go as a headless axeman.
May 2017 · 1.0k
Feelin' Croc
Life's turbid meniscus, mudslide plateau:
Stagnant, yet does so frivolously flow.
But I might not drown slow in nondescript,
There is this crocodile - the scales of it!
Predator X but not 'low salt marsh ****,

Fresh sludge nor where kitefaced sharks assault,
Stareating choppy seas, black wave tumult.
For mental Charybdis this Croc's snout whisks!
And Scylla is bathtime Basilisk,
Next to Croc gunning for my gazelle wrists.

Red zebra scarrer's nest wasn't my soul.
That mantras to self, religym, dear whole  
Foods, mystic manorexic me could bash
Shell, omelette it when ferocious beaked foetus
- poppycroc! Oviraptor hatched maneater's

Egg in the sewer, home the undertow.
O come a crisis rises Sobek-jawed
Kraken mislaid, what would lay low as long?
Motionless depressive's Fu Manchu *******.
Croc wants my willing spirit, comes on strong.

Launched, pounced and clamped from some soundless waters,
I like a seal pup, Croc is the orca.
Green killer whale could have condo on beach,
Up a month's mountain of false love it reached.
Turns out the mountain was one of its teeth.

And now it tears me around and around,
I'm not its floppy lunch until I'm drowned.
My kingdom for some sausages, might munch
Them instead of me, slumped like Mr.Punch
In Croc's deadly maw no hand can revanche.

Tory quacks privately prognosticate
Croc's cutlerydrawer chasm would not gape
If prestidigitators idle were
Idler, not signing on. Croc's gobbier
At work tho', snaps like possessed photocopier.

Cochlea's not conscious of galoshes,
Waterproof swish where billabong sploshes,
Nor by hackneyed-to-death banks of de Nile,
Fishies welcomed in iron maiden smile.
No, I cut myself with Croc's used toothfiles.

No rescue in Mirtazapine, Sertraline,
Venlafaxine, Amitriptyline,
Psychiarmpits askin', 'Am I trippin'?
Life's a good old stick, make it fit in
Monstrous black hydraulic head-to-tail grin.'

Psychotherapy can't turn me into
Steve Irwin or Alligator Glasgow.
Life's serrated vice, stick a stick between?
No length, no width had stick of psyche mine
- Croc could be hairgrip to rip my flea-leg mind.

My Emo Reg group into a custard
Cream's Victoran Illuminateye stared,
Arabesque biscuit mindfulness improv.
Gill said she watches washing-machine wash.
But I'm mindful, eternally, of the croc.

Even Nurse Steve's hologram poster shirt
Couldn't space me out when it's 18-cert
Emo-eppy in Pete's dragon's ghost mouth.
I'm dinner-ticket punched by reptile's tooth
Unseen, but my arm's Ol' Croc id brain's chewed proof.

Impermeable membranes blind the rooms,
I'm bottom of River Crocodoldrums.
Evocative of my crocodeath now all
(when I did a little spliff hospital,
Ended up origami gharial...)

Shockadile Mockadile Blockadile, dial
Samaritans, Crisis Team, Frasier, Niles,
My mum. No, dial yours, mine would be nervous
My life and death are not equally worthless.
Otherwise, for what purpose does Croc surface?

But why when Croc only lurkitty lurr...
                               kirks,
Must my muse pick its fangs like brassneck bird?
Nile Plover is crumbpecker poet, wins
Dicey delicacy, my own scattered limbs
From jaws of defeat. But I want in.
May 2017 · 788
Must Be Over 6ft
If you like Pina Coladas, getting caught in the rain,
the endless rain, the purple rain...
If you like Special Brew, well, no-one actually likes Special Brew,
but if there's times you'll do anything to misconstrue pain.

If you like Pina Coladas sharing a bath,
if your heart's been smithereened but you still like a laugh,
if sometimes you feel like you're still 16
and no-one wants to dance, then I'm the love

who's bit bananas, bit vanilla, prudish heart true,
I'm the lover it'd hurt to hurt you.
My exes said they loved me, but they all had X-ies.
Sensitive guys just ain't ****.

If you like making love at midnight in the dunes at Walberswick,
if you think you'll never meet anyone interesting on the internet,
if you've put 'non-smoker' but when you get let down you seek
cigarettes, then reply on OKCupid and we'll quit regrets.

If you think short guys ain't worth ****,
but you must admit you're a manlet magnet,
well, I walked the eggshell vale from l'homlette to Hamlet,
the razor's edge of the quietus a bare bodkin makes

to meet a sensimilla Ophelia too ******
on sadness to be near the lake this late.
I'll throw the rubber ring of love like a bouquet, catch it!
It's yours.
But sensitive guys just ain't **** no more.

I'll throw that life-preserver of love tho' I throw like a girl,
and Pina Coladas leave me cold like the rain.
But reply on OKCupid and for the 1st time in les temps perdu,
let's feel like French teens frenchying by banks of the Seine

(if you 'll settle for  picnic by the Broads, Norfolk don't have a cape).
Don't make me feel like Gimli from Tolkien, who his battleaxe
contemplates
for chap of below average height's bare bodkin escape, ay?
Like sensitive guys just ain't **** these days.
Apr 2017 · 559
Jade Blues (Lyric)
Jade! I ain't got you babe.
Babe! I ain't got you Jade.

Galaxies thru infinity falling;
baby crawl in wormhole, come out old man crawling.
Rainbow deathrattle of all the gods
ain't got jack on heartbreak's musicbox,
that ******:

Babe! I ain't got you Jade.
Jade! I ain't got you babe.

I was gonna save you from Johnson & Johnson,
& all the spiders in North Walsham.
Live by the sea, duck the government,
ring our family w/ your 6th sense
& my rage,

but I ain't got you Jean Grey.
Jade, I ain't got you babe.

The bittersweet reheated:  freezedry foreveryoung
Jade & I sharing an Egg Foo Yung
under the jade moon in the Jade Garden
(highly aptonymic Chinese restaurant).

On my toast I spread jade marmalade.
On his head Granpa spread jade pomade.
Who heldup the stagecoach? Jesse Jades!
Doublestake or split -  Ace of Jades, Ace of Jades!

If your immunesystem had the kissofdeath,
so the tables were turned in terms of pitysex,
O for a night with you, babe, I'd court disease,
chance advanced Jade AIDS off thee.    

Jade! I ain't got you babe.
Jade! I ain't got you babe.
There was a minotaurministry,
an outoftown eye's harmth o' viewful,
viewtafoul bonechina superstore
for bulkbreakage bulls.
It's a maze:
whose? Ownliason, onliest of all the one ways,
th'expiration of a lifeless passage
t'oak and silk grave
underoldground instead of overit, finally.  Always
dismayed, cage of alwayses ragged as a poxy ox,
kensingtonyak i attacked for a sark,
                loppy mosesstroked pantozie,
ta wear for the duration of a lifer's beserkness.
for burdensome overhanging dream of nobody's
                                                 nabbedbody warmth.
By scooping proxy i woke withinits
without's outer, a cark tarp
for dreams of being an object leftforgot , abjectified
                                                    in soiling rain:
liferlice's beserkness from the past-
ta-come. One couldn't refuse all of it incoming at once,
nor one 'once' refuse all ow it once at least.
Forwoe, ounce up on a lice,
the past that blowed blewin, additivesonthewind,
                habitcreep, creepdrift.
'…Pandora and I indulged in extremely heavy petting; so heavy that I felt a weight fall from me.
        If I don't pass my exams it won't matter.
I have known what it is to have the love of a good woman.'

Sue Townsend, The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole

'The rod bends low, divining land,
And through the sundered water crawls
A garden holding to her hand
With birds and animals'

Dylan Thomas, Ballad of the Long-legged Bait
To my local chippy - they're Korean-
to order a Kitkat deepfried in batter.
Odds of survival beat Macky Dee's
cold pasteurised faecal matter.
Apr 2017 · 786
Saddo Masochism
There's a pebble in my shoe,
yet on I run.
I'm a *******,
but not much of one.
Apr 2017 · 1.4k
The Last Word In Poetry
You can't choose what kind of poet you are.
Classroom or cult, laureate
or in the garret just for the hell of it.  
Mardy bard dangerous to know
or Cheese Poet, Volgon poet, Barry Kent.
Synaesthetic  Symbolist or Imagist
streamlining stanzas. Postmodern punner
or Romantic stunner-***-slummer.
Winherback onetimer or lyricynical
loverat roborhymer.  Syllable sentinal,
prosodic stresshead, tweak freak w/
iambic pentup rage & a rictus gaptoothed
nonictus. Or Beatnik bongo bard
whose Kerouachilles heel is itchy feet,
wanderlust metre, growing up to be protopunk
poet safetypinning syntax into blank, well,
pretty vacant verse. Poetryslam
champ, boisterous Banjo Byron
spouting professional confessional
McGouggherel. Or egotistical sublime
enjambing scars, obscurely immaculate
poete maudit peaking posthumously.

The potter or the sculptor.
The potterer or the sulker.
An immortal name seldomread,
or 1 anon for alltime & typeface,
yet whose fudged floruit was a crow's nest
for the Eye of Providence, agamottoptically
scoping an atlas of experience;
whose traveller's tessitura was compact in
1 couplet the Common Lexicon dibsed.
Blackbox syrinx talking to self
in glossolalia of Xanudu.
Or mellifluous hyoid expiating
a black ice conscience.

Illiterate poet whose bodyofwork
is a worked bodypart or twerked bodyart,
whose elegiac/tragic/epic life
doodled on some hearts.
Linebyline, nulla dies sine linea,
the poem we write (the 1 we're
the 1st to read everytime)
is a gazehound of logotherapy,
who catches the lure of jouissance
only in a lapidary freezeframe
of its trilliant gait, tho' it runs
the creativewritingcourse of a lifetime.
But even doggerel w/ a dedication
doesn't indicate afflatic altruism,
pah, poets are just cadging favours
w/ scrapsofpaper, w/ jingles &
janglednerves of abstract value
only slightly less iffy
than common currency,
depending on the exchangerate
between the personal & the universal.

Therefore: reader or patron,
oldfriend or 2nd wife;
or puppydog Boswell, Padowan amanuensis;
mechanical hare muses past, present & future:
when swell of soil breaks upon
some bone glade enclave of dwale & boles
& a badgersett for my scarpered soul,
the granite surfboard wiped out upright
will puff out its slab & entreat
of you the epitaph I now entrust:
RIP, Lysander E. Hardy-Pearce.
He couldn't help the kind of poet he was

(but if angels should sing me to my rest.
I'll know I was the kind of poet noone read).
Apr 2017 · 832
Rita Oramorph (Lyric)
When she cluck, I pretend it's love.
When she gouch, take my chance to touch
Rita Oramorph! Rita Oramorph!
Wait on her like the Queen of Sheba.
Wait on her like the King of Sherpas.
Rita Oramorph! Rita Oramorph!
Docs'll wean her off
onto Kia-oramorph
- worry Rita more than Xena,
Warrior Xenomorph.
I swap my script for a roofie stripZZZs
- Noddy, she godda nice body in Diadora shorts!
Rita Oramorph! Rita Oramorph!
If you love me,
you will sell me
a subby
or a jelly.
If you want me,
you will sub me
a trammie
or a vallie.
O pharmaceutically
blackmail me,
Rita Oramorph!
Since Blairmerica, jobseeker's frills ain't been allowed.
Plasma screen no opioid to the baying crowd.
Government's highclass callgirl with one ambrosial ***;
my own mother's milk was ******'s Nesquik,
but I always had nice pair of Nike Air Child Benefits.
The 3rd World War will be fought
instant they stop my Income Support.
The Union Jack won't be my blanket
on a green and pleasant embankment.
What exactly is it you want, John?

I only wish the benefits system loved me like I love it.

Tell Scameron & Tossbourne the effect of a green ounce
presages a fuel crisis on Joyseeker's Allow-ounce.
Smother your kids if they wanna grow up rich;
don't gedda wear plain pair of Air Max Tax Credits,
but being on the dole is cushty for the soul.
There's a K in the House of Lords if you
gimme a swig of your ****.
There's a P in the House of Lords if you
gimme a swig of your meths.
What exactly is it you want, John?

I only wish the benefits system loved me like I love it.

Marry me, we'll live in ****, Mrs.Iain Duncan Smith.
Marry me, twos on that spliff, Mrs. Iain Duncan Smith.
Marry me and our kids will aspire to ******* ****.
Marry me and for tea we will have broken biscuits.
Marry me, we will live like Smiths, Mrs. Iain Duncan ****.
Marry me, we'll live in ****.
Written about the last Tory government, but it's applicable to all Economic Social Darwinist administrations.
Apr 2017 · 14.5k
Neville Moore (after Poe)
One day I will depart the train at a station without a name,
Pull emergency cord and take the plunge thru parted doors.
I'll pack no suitcase or bindle, in my head young, free and single,
I will be a living swindle - wherefore art prat poet of before?
New job doing something I've shown no interest in before,
Change my name to 'Neville Moore'.

I'll do a Reginald Perrin, leave red herring threads at Sherring-
ham, then dice-rolled palookaville of new self I shall explore.
When Palookas call me Neville, they won't see this wasted rebel,
But numpty Neville, on the level, who misplaced his wasted days of yore.
Amnesiac clerk stoical over mist-shrouded days of yore.
Only knew my name was Neville Moore.

Neville will moonlight at night-school, pick up a trade that's practical,
In minimalist digs post-dossing on unforeseen saviour's floor.
Time's sandstorm obscures lyrics, John Doe-penned hieroglyphics
- lost soul Lysander's from Norwich. His mind shut like a shoved closed drawer
To Poesy's Pandora's box of ******* in indigo iron drawer
In Norwich. No bones to Neville Moore.

Neville will be a straight arrow, nice chap whose mind is narrow,
Tepid tryer temping at call-centre, lockjaw forevermore.
The blandest of mystery men, what was Neville's name again?
Man with no memories blends in; my dead ringer, stunky, strong-jawed.
Eye-witness testimony of 36 years will gladly be abjured
- done myself good deed poll: Neville Moore.

I'll  abscond so left Lysander might be eternal loose end, the
Inner poltergeist confined to an indigo iron drawer.
Tomorrow I'll do a John Stonehouse bog-snorkelling, a grandiose
loser who fled being infamous in his own dinnerhour, a bore
Unto myself.  I'll abandon ship,  then life will be less of a bore,
Being much more boring Neville Moore.

And I'll meet a girl called Sybil, Palookashire an idyll,
Where a man with no past can just wash up upon the shore.
For if child is father of the man, Neville'll be an upbeat orphan!
Labels torn off the clothes from Oxfam what Memory's Outlaw wore,
Newfoundhometownbound Mister X such clueless clothes wore,
Clean the pockets of Neville Moore.

Sybil won't be the type to probe, at night she'll pop her Zopiclone,
Cuddle up to normal Neville, earnest the embrace of average amour.
We will rent a little bedsit and expend a lotta effort
To make our place seem white-picket-fenced, tho'  we resided on 3rd floor.
Down updrafts of Fate, untempted to faceplant from the 3rd floor
Is plain ol' sane ol' Neville Moore. 

No temptation, but something racing, the unexplained midnight pacing,
And murmurs in Nev's sleep there's reams in an indigo iron drawer.
But in daylight we'll have daughter, from nowhere the name 'Cobania'
(Nev wouldn't dig Nirvana, fin de siecle scream's aural chore,
nihilistening not for Neville in zen of playful household chores).
Shrug-a-lugs of numb Neville Moore.

Neville wouldn't get promotion, Neville doesn't have much gumption.
Frankenstein's **** domesticus by design, Nev's a swollen snore.
Lice would have mocked, 'Call this living?' Lice is dead, would always give in
To windmills' wheeling withering, watched like a raven, set no store
In what life we have worth living, which is what life life has in store
For unquestioning Neville Moore. 

Neville, don't be snarling slave to snafus by another self made,
Be complete now the only piece is the missing piece of the jigsaw.
Radio receives no 'roger', they won't see Cobania as a toddler,
But for famalam, there's succour: lines left in indigo iron drawer.
For Lice did leave literally living will in indigo iron drawer:
Poem entitled Neville Moore.

Nev and Sybil will have ups and downs, in facades cracks gouge frowns;
Castaway's fury in his eyes curdles Florida coleslaw.
I don't need Sybil's mithering, I mean 'Nev' dint, thinking about writing
- did we do Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining', too nuts too soon in Neville Moore?
Polter-Lice rattling in indigo iron liar's den re Neville Moore's 
Writer's shock swan-song for Neville Moore.

And sweet phantom Cobania, I hope she ends up saner
than her Canoe Man old man, sent reeling by subconscious southpaw
Of split personality punch-ups,  one-man-band fight clubs,
punchdrunk on bad self burps, tho' he burped Cobania with awe.
Pneumatically patting doting dad, errant soon so overawed
By humdrum Heaven, Neville Moore's.

Witness protection program to hide me from self-hate's hitman,
But Miltonic Satan's heart held Hell, for killer within is law
Unto himself. Thus phoenix photo album of my alter ego
To ***-end before Year Zero was burnt down, act of soul at war.
Greener grass scorched earth, everyman Eden sacked by selves at war,
Lysander negging out Neville Moore.

His ship's sailed ment'lly down the toilet - can't see the dream, it's ultraviolet!
Sybil wagging her finger with ****** of a fishwives' wappenshaw.
Cobania's cantankerous tween, Nev hears fin de siecle scream
- call the toilet 'Kurt', it's flushing the dream! Behold:  tombstone beneath 
                                                        ­    a sycamore,
Man from nowhere nowhere now beneath suicide's sycamore.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Beneath me to quote Ocean Colour Scene, beneath sycamore willow-leaned,
But day I caught train derailed: no malaise of glory, Anon no more.
Cobania in black with ***** highlights will grieve Daddy on the quiet;
Sybil indignant that the senseless,  existential eyesore
Option all her lost-and-found, found-and-lost, haunted hubbie saw.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Nev won't see Cobania grow up: she doesn't exist - s' good job!   
Yet I'll miss driving lessons and wedding, even if shaggy dog's dewclaw
Scratched itself out, vestigial scythe: Neville was never alive.
But this 2.4, 2.0 narrative smelted indigo iron drawer.
Cenotaph recast as mask, new visage's vista dark as in a drawer
Now quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

After Poe's misnomer, well, misnumbered: one short, 17 stanzas  
Ironically encode birthday of old dud cub who overroars
Last-ditch striped leopard, tame un-me. Lord Lucan, he WAS lucky
-  there's freedom in fake ID! But Neville grew sick, sick of me no more
Now as one two selves expire, same sigh of relief 'low sallow sycamore:
Thank **** Lice is nevermore.
My birthday is 17/05.
Apr 2017 · 836
The Devil Take The Queen!
Saxe-Coburg-Stoata won't pop its Windsor weasels,
'til God's outed as Alan Smithee, credits roll for Kingdom Come.
***** equerries are  lickspittle English mudsills.
Workingclass virture's vice of received wisdom.

Their peacetime plebwish, standby wartime deathwish
for prole monarchists who find wonder not in wonders.
Echoes have higher IQs than yeoman status masochists,
scruburbs of sycophants wowed by plumvoiced plunderers.

Redtop recon in caff over nitrosamine sandwich
(last diner donated copy of the uncharitable Sun):
peasants poppysmic over pageantry (prozzies prize a
****'s plumage).
'Loyal subject' highborn hypocorism for  '****, but
Our ****'.

Feudal themepark fortified by perk sword, ignominious
honours. Sleb serfs genuflect, hobbled by thralldom
- shall we regain our Equilibritain? Fendersmith mutinous,
cinderise Windsors! UK PLC's slave morality: duty will be dumb.

But not by me, poet and fully zerohoured member of the precariat.
Fronthall Larkin's prams gridlock pales as act of artistic
harakiri next to perduellion against truth: lipserf is Laureate!
My sovereign's First Lady Jackie P, Jackie Parnassus. Vive la Republique!
Apr 2017 · 358
Blomeo (2w)
wit laz Bermoodah shores n aqualurngs
werbah dem mer-jayhaydeens surfgunj
bur gud, en Beg Depp o fifday...urm, Ah ferget,
bur arnat day tire flate depthly gart wyett!
NoAh caint raywahnd waves geronimrawd
jayhard Jonahs wept enta Katreena Nams,
bur wiv dare-x urb dare-i-yeahs o
oil-leannes, Ah mane dem ay-leannes,
Saudi Raypublek Navy surge-jinn-sea
bay stumped hinda aye-bull! Ray Nothing, hay

wungo 'Yippee-qa-e-da!' lark hay wahs
badseed brudda o Bruise ******* - he wo
arn hestree disc en ma grayskull - but dis
Bruise bro's
benna Loose-fur's tannin paliss.Hint no
squit wit cullurd folk tho, cuz bran ar grain,
Ahll speshilops tha lot! Hail o ha warders
hair urreddy, bur Yoo Wezzle ace n-game
wunz Marzpans sheet slicks ta raypay karnez
o hour corralen carsma caddleproads. Aint maple
fo Marzlimbs now starkpals o desert dayzil

nart own-loil zippin moderbows urlung.
Congy, sinka pitcha o scuppernung
ef yooz bolls fo diz bill. Paz et fo hour
fellah Mericonz n Allarz devowed
bah Impravarzd Dayloovienne Dayvizes
- holeast coast cloodin Trumpopliss, wetch Prez.
Trumpya Bush cooled Noo Yark: sgarn. Daird Sayshorz
o Izril Die-yesh dooshez dayloojd tow. Slez
arble hour bahbuls: 'Lard, Thy Will Be Dung!'
Novta Vice-Prez Garth Vader, sAh say surlung

n Guard Bless A Merry Cur.
scatbird saddle siddy nowfo You-n-i-dead
Archiplague-o arvUrmerica! Jed
Tarnationatrix frum da Gud Glactic
Neighbership Instute sez hogtyne Spays Shreks
then whammin wilecat wellz urb da jaxies
wel wen Marshan hinds - thail alligndance ta Fraydumb's
hoedown! *** thair ingrates ** go kez Axis
wit Gog n Maygog-dayfrozdin Marslimbs,
hose Aqua47s ez tritchin
ta hydrajack uz wit Warders Mass Drownen

(dubyaemdee). Sany yooz ** waint withers
gainz bizmillah bergzilla-daychillurs,
Ahll bork yaszez arf! Kint holda holsturs,
god *** laz galluns en shuddleboasters
ta Samaraterrorinly envade
Jorja Clay o Marz. Ez veeyennaville ef Slimbs
n Panz Marzipanistan posse made
(tellajunce vanjilists sez they soun lark kin);
Cold Saffrun nuffo Defcom Wun, aymen.
ThAh urshorz thextratesttrials, onest *****,

astramarines juz wailwishious hose wailarmed,
arn Red ta libralarz ay-lan *** farmz.  
Congressgation, ya Prez haz seen tecket
outta tha skellet, onest inuit:
well churg Marzpan pootrolyam larka Chinch
burg! Az ef Guantanama's centenry,
Merica gonna pardy, buck bad moon sence
Lice Hardy Oswald shart Prezdent Condy
en tow-fordy, ar sence thOPECaleps
o fordysects. N win transpordah sheps
well bust clymet pyrit slamic varmits,
I-tollah Ray Nothing aglubbin 'Quidit
pleez Yoo Wez, yoo wezzunt Q-klux cloots!
Jar reds aint frootzen jethrobelle crackajack
boots,
lark broback mounaineer kinda kafirs
- glope! Mericurz mo akbar, Ahll raybrand
Allah 'Apple Paella'! I-tollah
Rayll trah gater tears, brainwahshen brr-ounz
pleadin ya Prez lark Belzeebubby seal's
fa lean nancy - laz platoona Navy Seals

H2Uzi dem climacide Muzzies,
then libblerate dem Peez Frargs arn Moun Blank
wit streem prayerjudas. Gotta *** gastanks
o tha hummerdingies shut o ay-lans'
assoline furs, bur Hundrad Yeahs Croosade
Prez. Rev. Dubyof Lattyday Mallratz planned
backen tholden days o oughtacades
bay pram tenderrump fusta finely whup
wunce weez festfulla foss fuel Marzipoop

- bay lark Texicanz versez dem Mexcanz
agin! So Ah sez ta yall, Congressgation,
stayshun arn U.S.S. Welyum Coldy
hair en thOverglades now thars no D.C.:
tha tarm fa whistlen dixies haf paz daird!
Anna senedders arn tha U.S.S.
Termnader Two Judgmaday, locaded
onna Straits o Honalula, hoo wez
gittin fez aydrez bah netcassd, ma
messedjez marty pottonkickin semlar:
Apr 2017 · 316
Ooberkoo
Kett's Heights is Alp for
Knackered Norfolk Nietzsche: Thus
Traipsed Zaratrosher
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norfolk_dialect
Apr 2017 · 2.3k
Honga Bonga (Lyric)
One day the humanrace
will all be a beige
dullard monoculture
on minimumwage.
The real George Jetson
will **** a hologram,
then skype his priest on Gliese
for some Mandarin Quran.

Love thy neighbour,
but population won't taper,
She wanna be a mama,
& I want
HONGA BONGA HONGA BONGA
HONGA BONGA HONGA BONGA
Bonobo locusts:
vol-au-vents for vultures.
But my ***** hunger for
HONGA BONGA HONGA BONGA
HONGA BONGA HONGA BONGA

One day the humanrace
will all be Grays,
spreading politicalcorrectness
thruout outerspace.
**** Habilis
never missed the helicopter,
but Roswell testtube
can't beat bit o' hongabonga!

When my dinky's dongier,
I don't thinky of the consea-
quences for my descendences
- they ain't even acquaintances!

Hongabonga make the worldgoround,
but in humanbeings I don't wanna drown.
https://www.quora.com/How-far-are-we-from-intergalactic-space-travel
then dubyacee pay(t)rolleum! Foker-
paced quanum quacks n rockitdarc huckstars
hadda Hellispointymonkies Caves cloaked,
kays Ah seez Cherrakee neckstump cherracoke
culler down Hubbahubba tellerscope
- shia myule ploomedge! NASA arta brownblark
tha jarks bowda Marslimbs flahin icescalp
marders ta Marz. Way know feshrahd frargs grok
wit raghaired tahdrahzers arn tarp Alp Arl
- wot dem French Frahs leddon? Shah, beg lung wharl  

Marzazz bin drah az Loofah's boot, bur shoot,
yoo yooster nart *** Skimoes dezdaytoot
en Aridzoner neeva, nar pengwens
en wahs now Antarkansaw. Astramarines
needa flah ta Marz ta hellp Marzipanz,
cuz tha Lard hollurd ' ***-by-yeehah!' drect
ta ma Coalmineduh: 'Hoss, Opreyrayshun
Marzipancipation muz prey pruhtec
blackgold **** eaties, bayous ma deperty, Prez
- ef Marz sez ya snollygostah ganef,

smydum wit bremstun n gulldan sairep
frum Lyle's shack, till roobay doons ar killzone catsup
map, shellacked slaughty shades o shinola!'
Yessuh, behine me larka saddlesar,
tha Beg Pardna. Hez Wel lil grain galoots' dungs
juice fa Waryacht Wun, so judaz jars
** jive Hoostuns shadder arn Blue's lungs
kin snart tha Lard thruah Star Wahs harpoon!
Then downer Davy Crowkit's lockerroam,
floadin arn them thar electra banjers
n barndarz. Aven scrubs frum da ghetta
hadda baseboll batta row thar rufftarp
raaffs ta flegpolls *** lairvl wit sheik sharkz
- ez ISIA gon aquatactickle
arn heartlann ***, nart no globble wahmin!
Swim Laden's J.R.'d granqaeds rin carntro,
biff wall Krizdyun nufta flow lark sin,
terrah leader I-tollah Ray Nothing's
higrey aitchtow barms mart *** Wahomin's

Yellerstun Woe-mart wyett az Demmercraz, bur
way wideloadlynns lyla-lemmd barb buv
                                                       tharnslut
- ma doughy buoys, well het Dryoming yit!
Yoo Wez wulks arn warder, heck, drahvs arnet
lark Obesus Krysler, Hour Lard, cruise fard
parna sequoya! Ma nex gourdgrindarz NASASS
lebrel cellah cyants scumwads, hose fubard
urb satlite staykouts. See, dang midlo Marzazz
outtalunch gulches bin ay-lan cridders
- dems troggladarts ** scarf rid deetryders,
Uh Wyatt House howdy yall, fez hairs ya Prez!
Inishly Ahd lie textend ma deepez
condolerations ta tha Peachy State's prahd,
Atlanna wetch tekken tahds Atlannisarzed
uh lil earler, um, urgo... Hoo dargy!
Yous congressfolk **** saw laz week's 'Nooseweek'
arn thole Neuruhpatriette lobe load - way
Mericonz gotta swag tha flag, nart spake
o fedrel aid, pack pioneer pazingo
lark en vidz o bluenecks rahden hydro,
I've taken the executive decision not to mark elision with apostrophes for the purposes of clarity, and am relying on phonetic spelling to represent President Pizzafurter-Bush's Hills-Have-Eyes-meets-Waterworld dystopian twang. Apostrophes will therefore only signify possession. This is not supposed to be an accurate depiction of a contemporary Deep South accent, tho' it does of course incarnate a Eurocentric redneck stereotype. This comes from the archives, redrafted for  online publication,  but seems more pertinent than ever what with Trump now deceitfully  embarking on  business-as-usual,  imperialistic adventurism in Syria,  despite the isolationism he espoused on the stump, and despite the neverending series of conflagrations the blatant theft of another nation's resources that was the Iraq War has left in its wake.  Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose. There are 15 stanzas in all for those of you whose attentionspans may wane under the shadow of interminability, but I fear such an ambitious piece uploaded at once might overwhelm you lot to be frank. There is also a glitch with saving edits which I am going to find positively infuriating as a perfectionist, so there might be updated versions of stanzas replacing previous posts as I publish, if this New Coke abortion that is  Hello Poetry 2.0 doesn't start to right itself. A link to an 'easyread' version on my website may well be forthcoming at  a later date.
Apr 2017 · 691
Cowpire Vampboy
I ****** the blood outta ma woman.
I ****** the blood outta ma hoss.
I ****** the blood outta ma pard.
Wanted dead or alive or Nosferatos.

I ****** the blood outta the stagecoach
of schoolmarms heading west.
Red bourbon beckons like cathouse
perfume from a saloon of necks.

When Sheriff Twilight rode out,
I ****** the blood right outta town.
Red eyes beneath a sable Stetson  
mesmerise Main St.  come sundown.

I ****** the blood outta the injuns,
tho' the Sachem sensed I were no chechaquo.
I ****** the blood outta cowpokes too,
whether Johnny Ringo or Clayton Farlow.

After feeding I hit the Bozeman trail,
atop the wagon teeters my coffin.
But this Drac Palance ain't killed so many folk
as John Wesley Hardin.

Van Cleef cast as Van Helsing,
or Clint with a crucifix can't hit
the Billy the Kid who becomes a bat.
My high noon's the dawn, tells me ta ***...

My rivals draw their sixshooters,
but two bent dentine bullets never miss.
Colorado ****** the blood outta the lungs
of Doc Holliday, my daywalking dentist.

Founding father whose prairie
piranha legacy's red necks of genocide.
I'm only paleface the night cannot buck,
but the rest still **** each other's blood.
Apr 2017 · 818
Hope? Nope. (Lyric)
Gather at my knee, all ye
neighbourhood kids & heed these
words to the wise: use Sisyphus’ tissues
if you’re wiping weeping eyes.

Audacity of hope, Barack? More like
jolly-hockeystick-in-your-throat, I’m-alright-
Jack barefaced cheek when baby boys & girls
are the pearls we hurl before this Swine of a Life.

Why every day a little more hope dies!
Somewhere some schmuck’s last hope just died,
& they hope they might soon die.

‘Where there’s life, there’s hope’:
fool’s hope on which you’ll choke
the day you find vital signs might be ‘Thunderbirds Go!’,
but your zest is as dead as a d-d-d-d-
pterodactyl, d'oh!
Ditto.
D'oh?
Ditto.
D'oh?
Ditto.

Paul Celan & Primo Levi
made it out of Auschwitz alive,
but both topped themselves
decades after the Lager,
knew treacherous Hope, not Fear,
queued up for disaster.

But you gotta laugh aintcha, like a supervillain
- mwah-ha-ha-hah!
Or a supervillageidiot
- yurk yuk yuk yurk!

Why every day a little more hope dies!
Somewhere some schmoe’s last hope just died,
& they hope they might soon die.

'Where there’s life, there’s hope’,
fool’s hope on which you’ll choke
the day you find vital signs are all ‘Thunderbirds Go!’,
but your zest is as dead as a d-d-d-d-
archeopteryx, d'oh!
Ditto.
D'oh!
Ditto.
D'oh!
Ditto.

Hope springs eternal,
like self-harming haemophiliac's on draught cuts.
Hope stings infernal,
like Satan’s futon of massed wasps’ butts.

Doctor, doctor, dearie me doc,
my get up ‘n’ go has ****** off.
Since life is a *****,
Hope must be the ***** support machine.

Why every day a little more hope dies!
Somewhere some schlub’s last hope just died,
& they hope they might soon die.
Apr 2017 · 524
Misery Divorces Company
Our love's an inverted ******,
it used to be the ****.
Our love's a docker's omelette,
used to be my Weetabix.
Our love is the bride of Ironside,
but it used to do the splits.

Our love is the Council Tax,
but it used to be the rates.
Our love is now the raisins,
but it used to be the grapes.
Our love's a jackal's napkin,
used to be my jackanapes.

Our love is a ninja loan,
it used to be a warchest.
Our love is fuct,
but it used to be the best.
Our love used to be love,
but now it's used up.

**** a lemon, babycakes,
our love has reached that stage
where it's just a sulk-off,
an arms race of faceaches.

When all's said & done
it's all done & said,
like Rhett Butler & Scarlett O' Hara.
Some face is the only thing left
to save, mascara contra mascara.

So let's split, you old *****,
but first do justice to the stakes:
freely you must admit
you inspired more hate.
Apr 2017 · 798
Baz The Plumber (lyric)
St. George flag, Celtic band.
All Greek to him his Chinese ideogram.
Ersatz Essex Everyman, white van tan.
O twice as alive looks the life unexamined!

Won’t you put me
to sleep in dogmatic slumber?
I’d give my eye-teeth to be
Baz the Plumber.
My IQ I surrender
to be A.N.Other.
Dumb fighter, dumb lover:
unstressed genius
of Baz the plumber.
Dumb fighter, dumb lover!
Good Ol’ Baz, *** *******.

Football, fighting & Page 3,
nice bit of blonde stuff cooking his tea.
I’m no rogue, but no-one loves me.
Real free spirits are the thugs ’n’ the thickies!

Won’t you put me
to sleep in dogmatic slumber?
I’d give O my eye-teeth to be
Baz the Plumber.
My IQ I surrender
to be A.N.Other.
Dumb fighter, dumb lover:
genius unstressed
of Baz the plumber.
Dumb fighter, dumb lover!
Good Ol’ Baz, *** *******.

I’d rather be Dazza the electrician.
Or  Wayne the scaffolder.
Or  Jordan the personal trainer.
Or  Dave, regional sales manager.
Or Ambrose the aromatherapist…
I might give that one a miss!

Dumb fighter, dumb lover,
have cheeky chappie psychopathy

of  a total cowboy, sound sleeper.
Hard knocks Einstein,
Baz the Plumber.

He’s quite a bad plumber,
but the wife kept  his number.
But you can trust Baz.
Good Ol’ Baz, *** *******.
Y’know, Baz?
Baz the Plumber?
No, not that
Baz the Plumber.
The other Baz, yeah. No, Baz the Plumber.
Aztec Andy's abode was a dorsalfinned cathedral.
Inca Ian was his neighbour on banks of the Fongufeasle.

Inca Ian's residence was  a portholed volcano...
Or were their gaffs prefaffs of adobe & gold? I dunno.

IOUs on Andy's quipu arrears of human sacrifice,
when he encountered a jaguar, nonpouncer most polite,

decked in snazzy golfslacks & proffering sage advice
in Morganfreemanny, mammalian-masonic matey voice.

'Alrite, Andy?' spoke Jaguar, 'Say, I heard from Inca Ian  
you're all out of Olmec odalisques; devout, nubile, heathen

volunteer tzompantli t'malanoint w/ treefrog slobber,
then slit from stem to stern w/ your consecrated stabber

- not best joboffer...  P'haps most puissant Pashungo
is new deity for thee, Andy, now's the time to unfollow

virginovorous Ningovice, current blessing provider
for whom gore congeals upon temple table like sunflower

toms drying. Taboo tabasco  of Mayans' sprayin' midriffs
never tamed Ningovice's terms or propitiatory tariff.

You should switch to Pashungo, mate!' the Jaguar softsold.
'Ian did' - w/ pythonic aplomb  his tail pointed to portholed

volcano yonder. Aztec Andy wasn't born in the Bronze Age,
there'd be some mass grave formula & clause to assuage

this god on four legs, Pashungo. Andy owed it to old idol
to first unscroll small print in codex of Gaznumplepecol

to be informed  of penalty plagues Ningovice might visit
upon his crop of afterdinner lint & upon the spirits

of Andy's ancestors, Ningovictecs all. 'Worship Pashungo
today for limited introductory gift (no jaguano

passes these liquorice lips),'  insisted Jaguar, his whiskers
waggling distinguishedly. Like one of Jaga's lectures

to Lion-O,  a tutelary trait to junglecat's sales patter,
& a twinkle like early onset feline Alzheimer's,

chatoyant bants in the leopard-lookeylikey's langtries,
his lookers lacking overblinking of beast who deceives.

So th'Aztec advanced towards pantherpimpled proselytizer,
who thru couchant-sejant-sejanterect- rampant roared a riser

inopinate, clawful carnivore cosh thwacking
w/ newton bump of  Reg Varney's ***** busjacking

a doubledecker, fryingpanning Mesoamerican sun-moonie
flatfaced & flat out, tho' like he'd  lost match of '1-knee, 2-knee',

Aztec Andy fell prone, flat on his face. So as his next meal,
Jaguar dined on Andy's spine like a strawberry jellied eel.

Back on his Aztec Hi-tecs, Andy hadn't a cat in hell's to scramble
- moves like Jagger going for the jugular had Jaguar. Who'd also       hornswaggled

Inca Ian w/ Pashungo mumbojumbo for a previous feast,
tho'  kippercision of supine Ian aped bloodcounting savage priest's.

I'm sure you've heard to beware Greeks bearing gifts or even
brochures,
but now you know to never ever
trust jaguars in natty trousers.
quipu= Inca string and bead abacus
tzompantli =Mesoamerican wooden rack for displaying skulls of human sacrifices & war captives
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