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Apr 2017 · 841
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!

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!

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 · 532
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 · 816
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
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
Apr 2017 · 475
Flypaper Jesus (Lyric)
You're cheaper than lives of mica miners.
You're cheaper than backchat of the spineless.
You're cheaper than pyrite of Cheetos,
or hackneyed pun on gimpanzee of Greystoke's.

You're Cheetah/cheater
like a flypaper Jesus!
You're cheaper
than a flypaper Jesus!

You cheat us like firesale of freedoms,
or Tangoman papped sipping Spam'ead Orangeade.
You're cheater like Karla Holmolka
- sh'aint no keeper, ***** turned State's!

You're cheater
like a flypaper Jesus!
You're cheaper
than a flypaper Jesus!

Low as a 3some w/ the red M & M
& Joey Greco
in a moleman motel
where louseridden limbo champions fell.

Flypaper Jesus, yo' mama, yeah!
Flypaper Jesus, yo' fat ******' mama!
You don't need to rob them banks no more, Granma.
You fended for me like you fended for Pa,
but if I havta hanga hammock off the Job Centre door,
there won't be no more call to play Ma Barker, I swear.

With Beryl's beretta , you're still quick on the draw
(one you borrowed off her corpse in 2nd WW).
You won shootout against  the cops down the Legion,
despite agerelatedmaculardegeneration.

But yr biddy buggy won't outpace pandacars,
so don't knit baggy cardie to camo yr kevlar,
add eyelets to yr teacosy-posing balaclava,
coz you don't need to rob them banks no more, Granma.
I'll 'A-ha!' when you 'Da-da!', be yr
hangdog lapdog Vince Dingo &
yr own personal Theo
(someone to sell your art, someone who hearts),
if you don't pose a go-go, my girl Gauguin. O when you sulk you

sizzle like a Cezanne
in the boot of a Securicor insideman's
sunset sedan, absconder after a fence's attention
to monetise his hot Tate pension
of filched Impressionists
& the Expressionists they felched
(tho' only in the noble Athenian mode
of an erastes taking an eromenos
under his ring, I mean, wing!).
There's a Degas in the trailer!
A Bazille in the footwell, clogging up the clutch!
A Seurat jutting out the sunroof!
A Manet between the shell & the chassis!
No Pissaro in thisscartho'...

Monet spiders of impasto Aprilshowers
are a freebie windscreen Renoir's squeegee,
parting gratuity from carwash clouds
of Securitannia, as our artnapper's
Salon des Refuses-replete saloon
insouciantly mounts the Seacat's ramp
at sweatfree sunset speed, en route
to Costa Calida
sans securicaution.
A victimless crime against the aesthete Joe Public,
it'll only cost Aviva.

So, Dark Cow & my unherd of readers,
thank you for reading
the rejexpectorated stye-ary
of Adrian Steppenmole,
aged 29-38 & a haller.
Mar 2017 · 416
Vajazzled Stye Sequence 6
Simply a supernumerary & spurious Rimbaud,
unless Dark Cow is my Surelay Verlainetime!
A  lazing lady's leylumps of sheer lait
leadtheway thru the laybyrinth
to a rainbowed layby.

When the highrises of my hirepurchase homelands
are overtyned by the bailiff brine,
when tigh hides be waterflogged
by Milton Glacier's perished ice, lost
to the apocadrips that transfoam upon a trickling
upsurge into juggernaut suds,
then my Dark Cow, I'll be yr

Arthur Rowboat, Arthur Roambuoy, Arthur
& Arthur La-mer-devant-le-corbeau (that's a clouseau)...
Mina Loy've
done it for her Herbert Huncke of Dada,
that overbored boxer, she'd seareslashingly uncapsize
her artfist nearlyman alive,
dredge him bone dry from the shaggydog spume,
tomb tides. His vox Mary Celeste  aired
w/ a flex of her flipper (tho' mystery of mermaid muscle
less glittering is quite how dugong derriere seconds
as silver *******).
But my Dark Seacow only has high seas seeyas in her eyes,
no snogxygen to resurrecconvect me back
to warm Salina Cruz blues, to the Cape Of Dorian Hope
w/ passionate artificial
respiration like a yawner before a Tijuana

Mar 2017 · 493
Vajazzled Stye Sequence 4
But should 'alf a rain blade
like a turpentined hairline
gordianly bogart
innominate veinbow, & as a
woozy wordpicker w/ lordosis lips,
shishkiss my 'bow in 2,
my gloss section will have cropt a crosssect innit?
& I will remain but a rainbozo,
the rain's beau...
much as you left me, Dark Cow.

Browserk bowlips
of a wet poet in an afterrain coat.
Redraw hamstercheeks of knockoff rainbotox
expectorated, rejected for Thor's backwash,
a rainbolus
of nostalgie de la boue, but this be no
bonne bouchee de boue.
More that it merely started spittin'
just as I was spittingout
greyscale bogies of lungshadows
I attribouchee to being
chewedup & spatout by choo,
Dark Cow. Rainbow lustrous

a hackt slumped 'c' & a ****** slack 'u'
now, a pairof flapping wrigglers. Their
7 meanings bleedingout
to bunting stumps, truncated & phantasmal.
Silverlinings are just dun if they don't shine,
a hammershoirainbow into lindweight leadworms
lopped & awaiting
monotincantainment in a septych tank
at the end of my rainbow.
Which the ***** **** showed me.

Stye in the sky.
Jonestown Kool-Aid coming down stairrods.
Old, sparky stairlifts tail crematoria
Adolf's, Presley's lovechild, 20th-hungover
Kuklux twang intones 'Rock & Raus, raus, raus!'

rancid candy ketoacidosis
gust as Jeffreydahmer floors his burgervan.
I don't know what's in Jeff's Sexzomburgers,
but leaves Trump tang of chlorinated chicken.

Hoeing like hotcakes, commemorative stamps
depict stirring scenes from British history.
Philatelists covet a Kenyan being sodomised
w/ boomslang by sicko owed cenotaph solemnity.

Firstborn stillborn's full pentalogyofcantrell
no visceral florist could rearrange less yuck sight.
Was it augured by silhouette of biggest bouquet
obscuring torso of recessivelygened Mr.Right?

Chai latte beach of drowned childrefugees,
sabretoothed serendipitilessly w/ my old syringe,
whilst Sir Philipcobblepot's ****** megayacht
gutbursts thru blue whale's rostrum as penguinge cringe.

Simpsons Halloweenspecial in Fox's ***** vaults,
where Homer & Marge's roles are yellow Fred & Rose.
Sherri & Terri in the basement in ducttape
Wiggum digging Lisa up from underpatio.

Mensheviks vs. Montagues vs. Capulets vs. Bolsheviks
vs. Heracliteanfire vs. Billyjoel vs. Fattyarbuckle
vs. Irresistibleforce vs. Blur vs. Kramer vs. Kramer
vs. Oasis vs. Tutsi vs. Hutu vs. myschool vs. yrschool
- bundle!!!!!!!

My Auschwitz Absplan killer workout is
killing, working out - all the smalltown skeletons
Thinspiration pinup is the rind of the crescent,
arrosively I idolise Musselman in the Musselmoon.

The Future's childinacape emotes Neilhilborn
on FB meme - still don't mean the Future will fly.
It'll climb
'long monkeybars of dogshitty dildoes over pits
of ******* crocodiles (the Pope won the Turnerprize).

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha  
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

The Void's in **** hard & soft, the Void is bought & sold.
But you also feed the Void when you feed the ducks
All good godfathers gottohell whacked by the Voidmother.
Vacuous absurdosaurus universe is ghost mote in eye
of the Voidshark.  

I assumed maniacalcackle was madman close,
modulating the Cosmictragedy gelastically,
but my hubris dawned on me: it was Void's amusement
that I thought to sate its inverted Babel intray maw
w/ puny cunting poetry.

Her name is Maureen, born in 1940,
she's the sexmachine who reeks of *****.
Mr.Kipling, PG Tip' drawstring;
for **** she re-
cycle beefdripping.
I wasn't born when she was virginal,
she **** and she swallow, just not Werther's originals.

I like to bend my nanny's friend.

We do it doggy over her Zimmer.
I *** on her gums like knobbin' chopped liver.
Ernest died in the park, blowing his tuba,
where old dears go ******* on mobility scooters.
Crotchless incontinence pants, blue rinse *****
- Maureen,  I want to bracket your hinge.

I like to bend my nanny's friend.

I'm my lover's carer, her hip's artificial.
We bonk on blocked beds in the hospital.
Wet she ain't very, like a hipster's welly:
oil drums of **** at the ready!
Wet she ain't very, like a Texan prairie:
I'm the JR Ewing of KY Jelly!

I love to bend
my inflexible friend.
Mar 2017 · 762
Vajazzled Stye Sequence 3
I'm not manly or crafty enough to man up
& be craftsman of TLC you deserve.
A ****-nician of THC, like a Zyklon bidet
my exsufflation shafts your nerves.
But O Dark Cow up the **** w/ me,
couldn't my pissy poesy be yr
yr mephistoffee poppy,
e'en tho'
it's frowie faust flora & Daltonism's Rose?

These drab bayleavings are my horseshoe headgear
of Ishihara voyelles.
No reams o' mine boa-blent
so consummately to acoustics
of quinqcolour corolla
as Arthur's rainbow of assonance.
No:  no arch archy branch
of prismatic natter natty as prisms;
no pipecleaner petals which festoonophone
photic rootlessness 'pon a chromatocrooned
circumflex; nor mostexquisite
spectrographicanalysis (of Phlegathonic rapids' gases)
curved w/ bootivicious elan along the rhyme-bough,
as if a beauty on a rack on rewind. No,

Dark Cow
who it does not suit to be so dark,
not like satanicmillsheened,
collierycoated guidedogs of David Blunkett,
you're gonna havta slumit
in my 7th Tunket, where a rainbow is a lamebow,
&  the poet's at pyrite bottom of his *** of gold.
Best I can do for you is:

a Jospeh's kaliedocoat hanging garden of flyover,
or God's technicolour handlebar tash
when the Sun came out for 'Pride'
(hi-viz fiesta for velvetferrets & chutneydrinkers,
& ****** Craddock & ****** Devito
&... Him? Her? Draggy tran
twin for botoxbutchered Kim  Kardashian,
& Tran-ye West strumming a tranjo.
An' an am dram trans man
who used to be a woman in the wounded's white van,
wailing that she didn't wanna whannie).

Now, I'm cishet,
but as a poet,
it's often assumed, yunno,
I'm **** or atleast stye.
whannie = childhood East Anglian slang for vajajay, *******, ****, ****, ******, the pink bat's face.
Mar 2017 · 863
Vajazzled Stye Sequence 2
Behind a burkini may be une beurette rebelle.
Behind a personality, it can be pus 'n' hell icky.
Behind the deathtolls, bodycounts, registers
of the deceased, mortuary rolls & bills of mortality,
rolls of honour & collateraldamage,
casualtybureaus, obitcolumns & necrologues,
the humancost
is an Eichmann ethereal on God's Microsoft Excel,
w/  S.S.-ence expunged to save his skills
- coz who needs necronomic numbercrunchin' done
more than Death's boss?

Behind paintball Hungerford of my 1,000 punditties,
read 'impotent paintbrush'.
& behind the bitchoholic in yr bonnet, behind the slew
of shrewish rebukes, behind your throbbingtemplevein
is a pulsating pang of stagnant contempt for this
*** of sehnsucht zozimus you neverdreamt of.
yours truly the more tooly the more I embod
your unmet farfrom radfem yen
for a cuddle unquibbling, one not
diswhatwasthatstractedly stog-bandard,
just coz your offer's acataglottal.

Blokes may be emotionally niggardly
because nice styes finish last.
beurettes rebelles = French **** featuring Franco-Arab actresses in Islamic niqabs/burkas

zozimus =  Roald Dahl neologism, 'the fabric of dreams'
Mar 2017 · 1.5k
Vajazzled Stye Sequence 1
You've got highstandards; I come high as standard.
You don't find me irasciaffably
tibrickling as everytetchyman, Tone Hancock,
so moan O yr kingstomachdom for a sock
when e'er I do my ironichronic act
& asque if it was 'Jaq Chiraq'
who ne gungho pas to 'Irack',
or 'Jark Chirark'
thart did nart embark urpon 'Irark', I arsk?

If Lynndie England manwich
was sanctioned at Sangatte, if 4 & 20
ownbusinessminding madrasa mortarboarders
were waterboarded & frogfrogmarched
into a Sansgate sangwich , w/ burlap hoods
of le Soldat Inconnu giftshopbags turnedround turned
avalcalabs, blinding a human mullahpede
w/ backcombed manbunches  thru eyelets,
then the 5th Republic kept sucha draconian dramatised
daisychain off the Beeb. Not that I wouldabeen
rushing to recreationally riot aboutit,
being le roast beef blanc trash & all.

Besides, knowing Johnny Crappo, 420 of
the Flydubai Bedouins doing all the beheadouins
& actual Allahu Akbar hoohas
would be waterbombed & frogfrogmanhandled
into a Doverbound baguette of fineboat stature.

A stye for a stye will only endup making the whole world
staphylococcally suppurate about the eyelash follicle.;=7s

My body is a temple: sabotaj mahal.
Jobclub a' oompaloompa Auschwitz,
run by Roald Dahl-
eks. Exterminicious Knid! Exterminicious Knid!

When I can't find solace in my child's hale cry,
lean on my Lilo Lil of the Lullaby Lie.
On her Lethean breast, my barnet like Boris's,
sleeping giant sleep off the ties that grind.
I lean on my Lilo Lil of the Lullaby Lie.

This markettown's a Jonestown
fountain for us chavs.
Bullingdon Plague spread by
ministerial Jags.
Cthulhu hrududu! Cthulhu hrududu!

Making love out of nothing but air!
Making love out of nothing but air, yeah!
Freddy Boswell shares a barber with Albert Einstein,
Mar 2017 · 668
Eulogy for Heather Fishwick
She was the kindest willowy white witch
you could ever hope to meet.
With her St.John's Wort, soya milk,
lentils for supper and lentils for dessert,
pureed tofu when she pushed out the boat.
And a larder of antidepressants:
Heather Fishwick was allergic to life.
That does not surprise us
who knew you were the kindest.

Your PDSA-rescued, schitzy
labrador called Mitzy
died soon after you.
Did that dog's sensitive soul
set its own custard coat setose
as it sat at your geisha feet
that X-mas you overdosed?

And I was ungrateful, childishly,
churlishly resentful
because I was in my early 20's
and liked you and used you,
but did not really want you.
And you were a decade older,
but not a decade stronger,
tho' I later heard you had found
some happiness with a *****
builder called Steve.
Or so I believed...

We lost contact, I guess I had left
the unforgivable impression
that I hadn't really valued
the many times you indefatigably
shared your last blim of soapbar
with me, with a street-value
of 8 billion zillion squid
on any street with heart.

Our last routine pleasantries,
vague dope favours asked of a faded
friendship, haunt me, Heather.
Because you saved my life
for what it's worth.
Sometimes it was only worth a blim,
sometimes it still is,
blim of soapbar you shared,
skint stickthin stoner

A little dope when there's no hope
can be a life-saver.
A small life-or-death favour
can be a Lice-saver when all hope has been
scucking fuppered.

And PDSA-schitzy Mitzy,
daft people-damaged dog
barked the house down,
had to be locked in the bog
when Lice the Leech
too loudly knocked
to *** a blim of salvation.

And Heather, you yourself
could not keep quiet about
how your dad kept so quiet about
his boyhood with John Lennon,
brought up at Aunt Mimi's.

And talking of dropping names,
you're buried in Colney Woodland Park,
where another old friend I took for granted,
disappointed has been lain
- Heather, Hussein. Hussein, Heather.
Maybe your ghosts could unearth
my good points if the pair of you
put your incomparable incorporeal IQs,
ghossamer grey matter together
- you've got Eternity to rehabilitate
memories of me, tho' you might need

more time. I've already wasted a lifetime
on the sly narcissism of mea culpas.
Well I remember the time

in 2001 (just after we had sectioned my mum,
and I was crashing on my sis's floor in Lakenham),
sibliving had become fraught, so in a fit of pique
- as is my poète maudit histrionic wont,
I guilttripped Pasha-Jade, boomingly bluffed
I was off to sleep rough, with an ostentatiously
inadequate blanket and my trusty stuffed
gorilla, Oscar Wild without the 'e', under an arm each.
And it would serve you right, Pash,
if whilst I invited lumbago
doss-dozing on Castle Meadow slabs,
a ***** had used my toothbrush!
Instead I headed to Heather's,
who gamme shelter, repose
on a wicker two-seater with hippy throws.
And a soapbar sploofta cosh to quash
alpha brainwaves when the nightbrain
gives Hieronymus Bosch a run for his guilders.

And schitzy Mitzy died soon after you,
Heather, of a broken hound-heart.
I wonder if for once Mitz was a mute mutt,
a deathly hushed doggy,
pining like Greyfriars Bobby,
till Boxing Day when they discovered your body.

St.John's Wort, Seroxat,
a lightbox for your S.A.D.
A camomile welcome,
last blim and sympathy.
Years since your suicide,
even more years since our friendship died,
but might I one last time cadge of you,
Heather Fishwick,
this time your forgiveness
for my selfish youthful silybum blindness
to the milkthistle of your humane kindness?
Contains Adult Themes

'i took ****** for mainting the ******* of my *****
after ******* its in my nature i have tried
condoms oils exercises *** toys self ****
self ****** self **** olive oil *******
head ache oil ******* hair gel *******
spit ******* nose mucus *******
**** ******* menstrual blood & mucus *******
soap ******* so i had in mind to try
****** ******* for continuos ******* for thrice
for four times after consuming the 50mg ******
under 3 mins precum came out with excess speed
and i masturbated my ***** remained ***** after *******
i tried again it remained ***** again i continuously ******
for an hour it was ***** i loss my stamina wore up my pants
and sat down in my room tried again after 5 hours
it got ***** and remained ***** after ******* as well
i got worried about it being priapism I went on to sleep
without any ****** thoughts i woke up and tried jerking
it remained ***** after ******* i was worried
it was 18 hours of consumption i went on to do
my daily work and tried twice at night
and experianced same condition next day
i visited a urologist and showed him my ****
while standing he pressed it and it got ***** he tried
scaring me by telling you need a surgery in which i will insert
a needle and pull off the unrequired blood i got scared
he told me to visit another doctor he gave me
his address i went to visit him and he checked my ****
after laying down'
Mar 2017 · 988
terminal island
***** down Onceknown Road, an older morning
bursts outta the grit. Flytipt empires,
laidback wasteland warns there'll be no warnings.
Smiths'-song-street all shut suppersuppliers,
where might carpark oak or traffic isle elm
egdeh-comb cyclist's quiff should kerb unhelm,
next to busstop ad for new nervous tic.
Path of trundling on, tumultuously
normal, obliquely extraordinary
now flashbacks draw out, razor nostalgic.

Rowdied w/ 2 hubblydribbling drummers,
crumb comrades of cheeba cheer 'long  this road.
Studenty stovepipe house rhythmic slummers
fauve-fengshui'd, tho' precise narriow abode
alt-rawk teen trashedom PWNed, I'll pass outrite.
This road tho'. Omissive potholelands' tite-
lipt pockpits are due to dumb blip veil, Youth's
doob loop. ******* as scones, but partying
nous postponed postpubesecent perma-aging
for hol of nice naive brave haze, loose truths.

We were 90s grinadiers, lushes lean,
but did svelte sybarites swear off jimjams
& sack jobhunts to trade kugs w/ a Treen,
chug ponders peapodded w/ Grendel's mam?
Thought nonstoppathon tootenanny
altered moodiness like a green granny...
Piffleflaps! Prosphene Raybans of Blowmance
screen 1st gapyear on the dole for gads all
so legendary they sidestep recall;
for we steal liberty from ignorance.  

Later came grinning nadirs: alcaponed
& algerhissed drift from drumming duo,
all my old mates, to ***** & **** alone
on Chronic Island. Years beached like fatsoes
of the ocean, sonar bloaters. The mail
washed up: 'Why did you never find me?' Snail-
mail sans sails, once ale-full, in my own hand,
same grubby starfish that lobbed littoral
letter indicts loner as terminal
islander, tho' I quit Chronic Island.

Just kids, but faked stuff sincerely then, at one
leas' thru fakealong faith in fun. Yet the
quarries of qualms churned, gyres of the undone
unspooled kudzu spinelessness, a kidder
undefinespun. Zhuzhedup Past a plaintive
'sheesh', last niche pastiche, same intempestive
taisch, a disembodied gulp, a limbed fib.
Lightweights in the mist of dawn's roachbow trails
to noon brainjails. Start states sacrosanct, stale.
Tsk, Past teaches how to pish. Sunrise squibs.

Even in England, the nite is slitely
more junglish, even inside. Nite's teen knites
genied swanvestas like titch diwali,
not to sway over choral candlelite
- over gummy coffeetable waitin'
for stoner Noah's dovetail joint. Raven
rectricarse of raspiration adult-
hood's sulferous selflessness will whistle.
'Cras cras!' Dust wassails unexcitable
stardusthood. Asthma, my own stupid fault.

Being alive is terrible, diabolical,
fraught w/ peril at every level.
From dreaming dreamy dreams we're torn,
from moment you're cockcrowbarred outta bed,
a thousand natural shocks ahead.
Accidents predate, can’t wait to happen.

Life is death eager to ambush,
& you’re ever a danger to yourself, moosh
(coz two indifferences one death errant equal:
subconscious suicide, senseless synchronicity
is crazy paving gazing nodding off to self-pity,
plus juggernaut’s shortcut down your sac-de-cul).

Lovers leave, knockers sag, ***** flop.
There is no God but there are Acts of God.
Taps leak, archdukes are assassinated
& your kids will surely ****** off their bikes.
No Dharma rama will get you Buddhalike
as fast as full Englishes & being overmedicated.

Eggs, Ming vases smash; hearts, backs break.
Souls will be lost & knees will be scraped.
Suicides succeed, suicide attempts fail,
parasuicides fluke it. Souffles go ’phut’ & stay flat.
Milk is spilt; firemen & soldiers don’t come back.
Reconciliation letters get lost in the mail.

Everything is terrible, diabolical,
round all four corners Jormungand coils.
Justice gets gypped, cold cases stay paperclipped.
Loved ones die violently, prematurely, needlessly & still
the autocannibal universe will expand until
the photon/off switch trips
a trillion suns into damb squips.

All that Hitchhiker’s hokum I learned as a manchild
isn‘t true: life is not 42 , it’s horsemeat & paedophiles!
Horsemeat banquets in horsemeat houses on horsemeat
                                                       ­              streets
paedo horsemeatstreetsweepers sweep. On their Nokias,
paedestrians browse Wikipaedo, realise the Cabinet
are cyborgs of horsemeat reconsitituted, drone-piloted
                                         by the Paedo Mafia.

Everything is wicked, despicable...
Yet  tho' we must swallow a distinct absence  
                                                            of molehills,
sanity is a cockroach of coping, peace of mind  
a bodge-job-gened mutant, hope a robust rodent; love ‘s
a scavenger’s salvageable sentiment. Conscience like Keef
                                                        ­       ­ Richards
can beat the odds, tho’ standards drop like the Stupid 27 Club.

Like Winnie well wet-whistled on the wireless,
or Bob Marley wafting from a neighbour’s place;
a rugged rugrat’s redfaced noise in quake rubble alive,
or a once-upon-a-snowy-Easter boulder rolled to one side:
somehow somewhere someone’s mind will survive,
something somewhere will always be alright.

It might just as well be you
for a second or two.
Now shut the Hell out
& shut the hell up,
little ones. Sleep tight.

Being alive is terrible, diabolical,
fraught w/ peril at every level.
From dreaming dreamy dreams we're torn,
from moment you're cockcrowbarred outta bed,
a thousand natural shocks ahead.
Accidents predate, can’t wait to happen.

Life is death eager to ambush,
& you’re ever a danger to yourself, moosh
(coz two indifferences one death errant equal:
subconscious suicide, senseless synchronicity
is crazy paving gazing nodding off to self-pity,
plus juggernaut’s shortcut down your sac-de-cul).

Lovers leave, knockers sag, ***** flop.
There is no God but there are Acts of God.
Taps leak, archdukes are assassinated
& your kids will surely ****** off their bikes.
No Dharma rama will get you Buddhalike
as fast as full Englishes & being overmedicated.

Eggs, Ming vases smash; hearts, backs break.
Souls will be lost & knees will be scraped.
Suicides succeed, suicide attempts fail,
parasuicides fluke it. Souffles go ’phut’ & stay flat.
Milk is spilt; firemen & soldiers don’t come back.
Reconciliation letters get lost in the mail.

Everything is terrible, diabolical,
round all four corners Jormungand coils.
Justice gets gypped, cold cases stay paperclipped.
Loved ones die violently, prematurely, needlessly & still
the autocannibal universe will expand until
the photon/off switch trips
a trillion suns into damb squips.

All that Hitchhiker’s hokum I learned as a manchild
isn‘t true: life is not 42 , it’s horsemeat & paedophiles!
Horsemeat banquets in horsemeat houses on horsemeat
                                                       ­              streets
paedo horsemeatstreetsweepers sweep. On their Nokias,
paedestrians browse Wikipaedo, realise the Cabinet
are cyborgs of horsemeat reconsitituted, drone-piloted
                                         by the Paedo Mafia.

Everything is wicked, despicable...
Yet  tho' we must swallow a distinct absence  
                                                            of molehills,
sanity is a cockroach of coping, peace of mind  
a bodge-job-gened mutant, hope a robust rodent; love ‘s
a scavenger’s salvageable sentiment. Conscience like Keef
                                                        ­        Richards
can beat the odds, tho’ standards drop like the Stupid 27 Club.

Like Winnie well wet-whistled on the wireless,
or Bob Marley wafting from a neighbour’s place;
a rugged rugrat’s redfaced noise in quake rubble alive,
or a once-upon-a-snowy-Easter boulder rolled to one side:
somehow somewhere someone’s mind will survive,
something somewhere will always be alright.

It might just as well be you
for a second or two.
Now shut the Hell out
& shut the hell up,
little ones. Sleep tight.
So should apocatitfortat of prayerpaganda foment
an elevatedsense of lowmorale in your atheist
breast, unlibtarded antineolibtard reader, ye
blessed rationalists who besmirch not
this middleagespreading universe of lurching
stars, either as some dingdongmerrilyonhighly dubious
monkish dongless dovemens' cote
(where a starver & deserter, Celestial Molester
& deistically teabreaking Gold Commander
incurs culpa lata from afar);  or for Mack Daddy Allah's
Carlsberg cathouse-***-Shalimar-garden-in-the-sky:

then godless peacefulishniks amongst us must decry
religion's metaphysical desecration
of master chancer Nature's
stochastic starscapes & slapstick mathematics,
the breakaway balsa beauty of Expansion's
exponential black solvent (not collapsible prop gods),
the universe & the universe citing irreconcilable differences,
as galaxies display the creativity of runaways.
So shall we make a good restart

& shuttleshunt those uttercunts, Binliner 'n' Shrub, to Mars?
There, those blatent caveboys can slugitout mano a mano
over whose Weltuntergangsstimmung becomes king
of terracotta desolation,
warlording it over Marie Rose sauce dust devils.
3-2-1, *******! I mean, blast off!
& just like that, we could dispose of dusky Bin in a rocketfinned
bin & he can take his carnage cult of dugma dummkopfs w/ him
(who inshalla-lledgedly primetimed attacks
like ***** pranks Jihadis ha ha over)! Likewise, Shrub
can swap Gaia, whom he & his Halliburton organgrinders
seem so set on strangulating,
for a Martian mansion of nothingsubstantial,
exposing banishees from Ol' Blue 'n' Green Isles.
O may him & Bin not even be thin
finders of Zaqqumfruit like gorgonrinds
upon their prison of prawnish plains.
'Specially serves Shrub right, for he & Pentagon
Mafia Dons would swap Sol for cypher, Mother Corn
for Monsanto chemlock (let Bayer beware!),
all the while giftraping their crude larcency
of  industrialvitalfluid, Castrol rather than kinder Castor's
crude precursor, in a godshilla's christ grift,
the Christiannexing
of stragglers & mad dogs who aren't mad dogs
on a starspangled leash amongst the Opec pack.

Contemporarywouldbe petrole'mperors
comparably realmemptying both in intent & in relentless
barbarism of the Book, Shrub & Binliner clack
satirisk heads where no satire tsks, instead lock
nodulicorns significantly micropenile on faroffenuff
astropenal Mars, already sterile & bloodred.
Whilst everyloveelse, we canjust
& revert to sighing a relieftempered breathofanxiety still
worrisolipsisome, but nowjust
secularly streamlined frownlines
from cigarettes & their absence anticipated.
Or anticipation of the absence
the stubby dowdy ball of Death schlepped behind
Smoke's winding finery of chains.
Or neurotically kneel before navalbraining
primacy of bodymass promulgated
by the pressagents of anorexics w/ platinumrecords.
& natural disasters, natural disappointments. &
History's filibusters to adult pesterpower of Hubris.
'All this, Ours now Allah is a mirage & God is dead
outdated!' said the Phainesthesia
w/ a degree in Divinity from the University of Sous Rature to me.

I only pray, figuratively, that those holycancers,
archarse pair of hellfire galahs in exile on Mars
do not mindmeld their pitiful peanut filberts & schlock souls
in dei-mentia's co-re-invention, ecumenically bromance
a Republicratdemoconmerge-hadeen merger into
an allnew thundermentalist Al-Meriqaeda Axis,
Shrubliner sect invading from Nasa's naughtystep.
Undoers of stardust's labour, phasers set to auto-de-fe,
up to eschatological crossover capers, Shrubliners'
deathstardust lasers light stalkers after the Light's talkers
like me. But of course deprived of my poeticlicense,
Binliner & Shrub would have asphyxiated on Mars
in less time than it would take to watch the last few minutes
of 'Total Recall'... Cool.

But now my Bathoven mo' is over,
brrr be the bathwater, but that's not why the
rat of a shiver shot up my drainpipe spine.
No, it's the chill
realisation there's still nowt but rovers on the claret planet,
whose namesake's malignfluence is sole
deity corroborated by incarnadine lagoons
the massgraves of heretics & recusants,
infidels & honourkillings
spurt here on Earth,
no colourclash where civilisations clashed.
Cosmickeymouse shekinahs of countless
cosmickeytaking fingernailparers have been
postulated, ghosttoofeted,

but only God w/ form
is the same old god who is love
(& He wrote the trilogy on the standard 7 sins).
So, very verily I say unto thee:

Bless Yourself.
Weltuntergangsstimmung = 'apocalyptic mood', German
Zaqqum = a tree in Hell, Arabic
dugma = 'the button' suicide bombers press to detonate their payload , Arabic
Phainesthesia = from Greek phainein - "to show," phainesthai " - to appear", after Heidegger.
Just humble stardust w/ a bartab like You All,
yet had mon tete been geniustwatted in the bathtub
by Cosmic Commonsense like a Hollywood dodgem?
The Light's point of view
had starpower of a simple truth,
exhorting all us Occidental folk
who aren't amenwhining wideloads drugged by driving
to revolt & deracinate the armageddaceous vegetable,
Dubya Shrub, that like some ghastly barnaclegoose
propagates slimy hawks, tho' one cannot wot
if they be eagle or cobra from cockatrice collarbone up.
& when talons blossom, a mob of Western civil heroes
should impound such deciduous warbird anti-Kezzes
w/ concrete jesses.
Likewise, the Light doth
entreat the Sheikh in the street & the haytistes of Nice
(whose Frarabic mutterings are half-Qurannish,
half-MC Solaar), & all the hajjis playing
Mohammedean Pom Pom Home - pilgrims hillsboroughing
about the Kaaba - every Muslim
w/ slipped discs of salah, from Kuwait to Qatar, Bahrain
to Bradford: permit the photoflood of Doubt to flash out
faith's fog, for it makes as much sense as Shrubya Dub!
Let the Sunna do a runner w/ the hasbeen Hadith
like the dish & the spoon ( an equally respectable belief),
& submit to a secular baraka
kindspirited as we Christkickers amongst the Kaffir.

All who accept the Prophet is Morhominid
must oust the imam of indiscrimincineration
from his weasel webs at Tora Bora.
O doeeyed softspoken pyropriest, Salafist icon
of elevensmiths, whose slaughterous forge
would only fuel 70fold
the obsidian aizles of Jaheem!
But Osamartyrsdotcom's everlasting domainname
be not Jahannam, where sinbattered
souls searing attend parole hearings
in liquefied flipflops & halters of palmleaffibres
(presiding Judge Maalik,
every finger on each hand a thumbsdown). Nor
shall it be Jannah, an eternity spent boning 72
Xray houris w/ the most boneable bonemarrow
(my source on  posthumous sexbots sahih)
- la ilaha ilvi-agra! Uh-uh, Heaven niffs & Hell smells,
elevensmiths only endup elevenses for Death
(moreish numbness for some of us who get the taste
for no appetite), not the rasping wraith, but godless gape
we giftwrap in a godshape to guard against
the departed's space
as well as our own dread departuredate.

Mushmazarded hardliner, Semtexas Shrub &
his twinned liar, Jihadliner Binliner, are tantamount
terrorwave riders, bloodbath brothersinlawlessness,
or 2 Horsemen gay dads of Baghdad's bodybags
- married by massacres, John Lewis list on bodybagtags
& oldflame S.Hussein the (body-)bagman for the Blame.  
Like the insatiable Hulk's Wasabi ****, Wahhabism
sows explosions; if kerblammo red rings
of Amerikiddies' sacrificial limbs holdinghands
aren't blastradius haram,
then Hell's moist coals are here & now halal.

& as for Shrub,
Lone Star Jesus Day-legislatin' gub,
Cheneyyank Kaiser, **** warmonger,
his patri-idiotic pout & gospeldegook
is the cackcreek credo  of the G.O.P.,
where the S.O.G. is Jesus Croesus & G-O-D
is the S.O.B. (Sun Ofa Byss) nudging Shrub,
'Armageddon, are we there yet?'
Arragheddon a bayonet
like a rag to septicephalic beast harbinging
the great Satan-contra-Shaytan ruck on Crusadescursed muck
Scripture schedules for *** yoke of the Z.O.G.
I've seen this supervillain smackdown somewhere before,
American Hordak vs. Saudi Skeletor.
Jaheem= Arabic, 'hellfire'
Jahannam = Arabic, 'Hell'
Jannah= Arabic, 'Paradise'  
houris = Arabic, the 72 Virgins rewarding the virtuous in Heaven
sahih = a hadith (quote) from Mohammed bestowed the rank of utmost authenticity
Shaytan = Arabic, 'The Devil'
S.O.G.= Son Of God
Z.O.G.= Zionist Operated Government
There was a balloon called Claude,
who was more than bored.
and all the rest:
poor Claude was depressed  

His mood was brittle-bleak,
he sighed with a little leak.
He felt flawed and deflated,
feeling like that Claude hated.

But that feeling felt another flaw,
Claude hated himself some more.
Glum rubber glower declared
he was just a waste of air!

The other balloons at the party
lolloped on high quite smartly,
looking the party part
above paper plates of jam tarts.

Claude was seeping helium,
did not bob against the ceilium,
but bumped along the table top.
wouldn't give a **** if he popped.

At his knot jam tarts were snapping;
in a coil flopped his string.
Listlessly, he leaked
with a silent deadly squeak.

Then in cartwheeled a mean clown,
trifle concerned that Claude looked down.
Grin painted atop a grin,
from striped pockets produced a pin.

He was hired to make this birthday
a day of mirth and horseplay,
but a balloon who looked so flat
would get in the way of that.

So this clown who was called Bozo,
a boffin of heehees and hohos,
decided he should hasten
Claude's clinical deflation.

Bozo's fatal ***** did near,
Claude colluded without cheer,
for above him the thought did hang
'tis nobler to go out with a bang!

But Fate had another notion,
suddenly thru an open
window a wind of fate did blast,
well, let's say destiny's draught

took the matter into hands unseen,
blew off a wig of curly green,
wind-wibbled red jelly and pink blancmange,
and if a candle crown of orange

had already been lit on birthday cake,
the wishes would be the wind's to make!
Birthday cards fell like dominoes,
and with lightening speed Claude rose

like the puck when the hammer fell
in a strongman game that rang the bell.
All the other balloons shook like fruit
not yet ripe enough that tempest's toot

might dislodge into muffled landing,
but from sellotape mooring Claude's string
was plucked by gust of liberation!
Claude flurried like panicked pigeon

that had accidentally flown indoors,
in circles around the ceiling soared.
The other balloons feigned snootiness,
of Claude's elevation envious,

but their discomfort was not to last,
as with another lucky blast,
thru wide window at far wall
Claude was carried by the squall!

From Bozo jabbing his steel thorn,
from party where Claude flumped forlorn,
a little local turbulence
rescued our blue balloon by chance.

And now Claude was towed by the breeze
like a beachball adrift on open seas.
By updrafts unbuffeted, but buoyed,
Claude's gaseous heart was overjoyed.

Like Icarus with a happy ending,
Claude gloried in ascending
the azure, where silhouetted birds
like him to winds of fate surrendered.

Back in the lounge the other balloons
would not behold this golden afternoon,
nor peer down at the brown rooftops
where Corrie cats groomed and licked their chops.  

Will Claude scale sky of his desires,
or rubber be gooified  by solar fire?
To elsewhere isles will trade winds lead the way,
just in time for Man Friday's birthday?

Or will man in the moon give Claude
green cheese for breakfast and for board?
By tonight will he have gained such height,  
shine purple shall he in starlight?

O whether Claude will rise or fall,
does not really matter at all,
for should he again feel so pfft and low,
he's learned up is the only way to go.
Nugatory what droog boogie of Bonn's mardy maestro
thunderbubbled thru my spongey drums:
my shelllikes ***** not on ceruminous ceremony.
But daydreams' iridescent blackout in balneal
Beeth-o-zen (Classic FM whackedup less hazardously
in nearest unlobtailed room) were blacketty blinks
to the obvious, till edge of blissful ignorance
was popped by whitephosphorus pop logic, like I was
jaywalking Bambi or in Nervous Sleep before
the quixotically compensatory gleam
of a blind biddy's bingo clink. & even the jink of light
in the bread & jam nurdle, hameojoff bead
a blindman's viscid jitterbug  might frictionfleam,
as he finds himself grindingupagainst
unclarified erogenous surface foresaid
chingoblinked blindbiddy presents - even those phots
don't bop like the knowledge that had me new shrieker
of legendarily lavating Greek truthseeker's

It's not that my muse's nose mused upon how humiliating
hydrophobes never helps - their manky tang like a monkey's ting
will w/ smullying only honk bleaker. Nope,
the Light I cite midkittyinaknapsacklick is the venting
of each abulically untroated vote against
medievangelist billionare brats
& their weaponised superstition
- O nullifidian tippingpoint
had me tripping anointed! Inanimate blaze of this Revelation
was effin' fluorescent, Nootestament unheavenly bright
as Baron D'holbach's baulking at the holy,
whose pioneering apostasy was ThusspakeZarafrustration
at our Being too betafingered
to **** God's wispy wrists w/ William of Ockham's Razor
like it was the Duke of Nukem's bazooka.
Mar 2017 · 1.7k
Noughties Atheist Epiphony 1
At the edge of bliss, in the sensory
embarrassment of riches of a 'Bathoven'  mo',
my Ecclescake ears musicophile
mincement as Ludwig vamped, tho'
chattercatchers hovered craftily
in the tub, weren't waterlugged.
But then
some sceptical scimitar or bayonetbulbed bayonet
out of the blue (but not the bathringed cloudyblue)
bisected my metime as well as all middleman mass,
& thru slash aqueductive the crest
of a Mexican brainwave sloshed - 'twoz
collective conscience of the homocidophobic majority!
Welterskeltering thru insoluble consensus
of the consensually insoluble, united affront of the globe's  
Chinesewatertortured frontallobes
pensivividly poured into the
gourd of lil' ol' me 'aving my Bathoven mo'...

Or were Hindsight & I FWBs, had some
failing future Hevearth sent
me bacsimile of bluetoothless prophetic precog
(it'd be excoriated w/ ECTS  by mad mod docs),
Humanity's Last Hopers uploading downtimestream,
retropinging me the power of ESPeeping?
However it happened,
I henotically kenned the latest hope held fosterghostclose
by most, all whose costard computers boast
basic soulful software of a care in the world, whilstill
Archimedeep in watery thoughtfulness, the grey gunk
of gumption pooling Lysander's skandhas in a body
bagpussed in birthdaysuit box of bent rain
(where Bath Vader K.O.s  B.O.  Wan Kenobi).
This politicophilosophical poem was written and thus set in the early Noughties in the Blair-Bush era. I recently redrafted it fit for pride in publication, but have been careful to avoid anachronistic updates in terms of events or vocab. What with Trump sabrerattling against Isis, 'plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose' comes to mind.
So stomp like a hungover dinosaur,
do the Stalin shuffle over bodies
( in the singularpringular in this case, Josef)
- one impaled on a nailbed left on a shelf,
flatter than a swizz Schweppes,
or pressed flower some cuckolded colonel
relinquished on the Eurasian steppe.
For you tread on my dreams.
Or at least their autumnal smithereens,
crackling like a staticwauled chorus of Karma Chameleon,
now you tread on my red, gold & greens.

& any dark green shoots of maturity,
red & gold corolla of survival's beauty
protruding from the shooter turned inonme
(as if some flowerpower intercessor
lovemugged the [email protected],
schmoozemissiled an armistice with the *******,
me-shaped gap where no magisteria overlap)
would be just another
humble hardwon
holding con, settingmeup
like an unassuming dawn the Day Of The Bomb.
Feeling all the more wretched
for that sweet breakfast of Frosties & water for one,
before a glimmerofhope nuclearbored me like the Bomb,
another home invasion of unrequited love  
discomboburaping me of the normalcy
of nice isolation & neat avoidance.

I have engaged private security firms
in my every Englishcountrygarden.
I've cemented broken glass atop the rainbow.
If there is even the remotest chance I might fall in love with you,
get lost.
So it's cool, baby, cool,
that my prayer for love
goes the way of all such beggingletters to Big Daddy Nonsequitur:
Sans God & sans gondola
& sans protest & thus intakes of breath,
I'll doggydoodoopaddle thru whatever Venice of doggy dysentery
Fate follows thru for me.  
Besides, that such an inexcrabapple stain as I,
such a scalding skidmark after Curry Night in Hell,
could entertain the lie limerence mightn't be misplaced after all
sticks out like the Crucified One, or the septic thumb
of a dolescum King Kong
with bananarhoeaencrusted  
******'s blind of a giant's fingernail.
The very notion is radge
as an ad for an accomplice in a crimeagainstcreation,
fraping the Churchshop Facebookpage
between the tearduct placement chugolas chasing
the Big Society penny for heathen dreamcatchers
& other therapeutic detritus of alky arts & spakkrafts.

I've faked fierce fatalism
to protect protective pessimism
that I see nothing offsong
or fishy in iffy Lurpak heirapparent who saw sense:
Death is the skull of an old mucker.
So take it like a man, like Desperate Dan
creamcowpied up his stubbly ironbutt
on Brokeback Mountain
- on all fours first, then consent.
It's for the best I bookmark then bin
my Mills & Boon bucketlist,
won't bitterly tinker anymore of my own
crash & vanity published
anthologies of that same selfeffacing joke,
stalled into endlessly reinventive selfharm
like bumnote Bowie with chameleon's block.
Same same same punchline always a Borderline
love lyric bickering with Fate
who cannot keep a

      f             e
            a c            
  s                     t    
    t                h
       r  a   i  g

unfair. O Fate
raking your sour coal blaze of reopened grapes,
you've won, I'll suffer on & on & on stoically schtum,
but I just wannaknowhowcome

nothing should fall harsher
than a groan clown,
who's tried, goshknows,
to turn his look of the ****** upsidedown,
but never been caught with his
Calvin Klown pants down,
unforgiving of his own
[email protected] the foolharder
in front of his witheringly notlooking
straightman, always a beautiful woman.
I find strength in the fact I will bend
like brownnoses on brownkneeses until I break
like a nirvana trump in the wilderness.
I find comfort in the knowledge
this state of mehvana promises
bathos that will detach my detached smile,  
my teeth's tensegrity jerichoed
unto a lateritious tundra
of important life lessons
in eight noble kickings.
I find peace in the realisation
that the soughs & squalls of selfimprovement,
the right noises, will be squeezed out
by a Martian sandstorm
of depersonalising selffulfilling prophecy.

Snakedance in bits, supine in pieces,
I dree my weird as derobed yogi of debris,
Frank Siddhartha.
And now, as tears subside,
may I say, not in a shy way,
more, much more than this,
I've learned the hardway
is always evertofall inlove.
Life is so much betternow
I've accepted it neverwill be good,
Goodnow I don't expect to everfeel
Good Enough
to understand the stuff of Good Enough
enough to bluff Good Enough
good enough
for Good Enough
to be good enough
to make itself known
like Lady Godiva packin' heat.
Life & I are evenstephens,
now I'm resigned even in dreams' reruns
to my gaze [email protected]'stootsies
puddlepruned, even tho' she's goodenough
to point her piece between my eyes.

Take the blame for the rain, go to your room
& sit & listen to its percussion
of fresh accusations, 30billion fingers drumming
60% water & 40% condemnation.
In my room , I reflect on all  I've done
that now Everything grieves everything via a proxy sky,
Everything weeps for Everything forever
& then over everything else over a day.
My fault the Sun's eyeliner of fire did run.
My fault the Earth threw the Moon out of its pram.
My fault Noah's bath did overrun
& an innocent Almightygod was let go by Pimlico.

Life & I are not oddstods anymore,
our loggerheads are logged under the heading
'@timbernecks', now I begrudge the Good News
Jesus died for me slightly less. Indeed, he has my permission  
to perish for me a lot more
than a month of Good Fridays, make his fraudulent ultimate sacrifice
999x like Deadpool's cat.
It was my vague sin
that was the straw as cumbersome as a camel's corpse,
giving his shoulder the gyp that would do for [email protected]
Despondent in a sanguine fashion
about being the real Christkiller, but that's the way I roll
with the punches of scapegoated Jews.
Feb 2017 · 859
Licing Home, Final
Home is ambivalent agony of always endingupalone,
lion's share of my life in such ambivaliving spent shunning,
shadowstriped w/solitude of tired tiger cadging a cage.
But tho' animal me had misgivings, it must have felt l/ home
if home is defined by how many times you return,
wherever you may roam. Show me t/ way to go home,
I'm tired & I wanna go to bed
alone in ambivalent agony.

My unheimlich forever home
is a permanent pearlescent adolescence.
Opaque to myself, a reflection only of t/ present,
l/ a fleshwound of mythic marble.
I read 'Borderline adolescent' is a tautology;
no wonder being needy gets so boring,
all apologies for vicious flatline circumfrumping
t/ monotonous circle from
overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens
to this Borderline 37olescent.
Assentaneous bittersweetness my last deserter.

Enough oddbouts of messy ire complex
to oversimplify infallibility as extension of aloofness,
telling a few home aloofs is rush of Unabomber smugness
at my own deviant basketmaking
a.k.a. poorman's genius. Cliched,
but an artist is a spiritual exile
a.k.a. richman's homelessness.
An omnicidal somebody w/  bespoke nuke
in a hollow copy of Walter Mitty's hollow 'Collected Poems'
- nothing them genius weenies duz really pleases us,
vice versa for earth gods amongst derfwads.
For what abode of hip food & humble ideas could rival
t/ visceral crystalclear unheimlich adolescent opacity
of eternal ambivaliving in t/ Righteous Paranoic Present?
All heres & all nows unified, underpinned &
undermined by t/ constantfeeling something unknown is very
very wrong.
So constant 1/2  t/ feeling is feeling verymuch at home w/ this.
'Swhy suicidalideation always seemed such a 1/2way house,
tho' noone can really live on t/ middle of a busy bridge.

But it surprises me how anyone can call anywhere home,
t/ universe being profoundly plummeting, pulverised fieryfroze matter,
just plummeting & scuffing & pulverising  other fieryfroze matter,
conflagrating in a blacuum until all t/ homefires of Nature's Hbombs
leave us even colder, in caliginy worse than white torture of
pool skamkab a ni ronyag airogl ginrevoc repeer migr eht.
Our peeling Nikes peeking out of a panther pelt shroud,
peeled from a panther as big as t/ guntz. Homeless,
but as its hangdog furniture t/ future's my retainer
as I mature against my better judgement.
Roots always get t/ better.

So I am not t/ Dave that rode, suicyclist
(tho' he wasn't one who drove) into O, t/ porcelain
sunset of midnite. Cliched,
but life is just such a ride by t/ seat of our panthers.
Besides, Glaswegian Dave survived (until he died at
a grand middleage).
& Marge wears a string of moons & Homer's at home everywhere.
& I do have a home under t/ pathos of a British Moon,
dangling l/ Mussolini amidst baseballmitts of nimbostrata, dabbing
t/ Counciltip - ***** of all overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens
- w/ evocative rainpong, gentrifying petrichor.
& tho' most British disturbances are kept to t/ home,
what's more English than shelter? I have somewhere to go...

But I would fall into yr arms, Dark Cow,
like profoundly plummeting, pulverised fieryfroze matter
- go on, let my cuddle scuff you, wipe out yr comfortzone of  tyrannosaurs.
One can stay at home too long, you know.
As far as concepts & their tails go,
I'm more of a feeder than a finisher,
so I'll fill my writingboots, biro my toes,
by feeding home's humble ideal:
home is where we're more furniture than feature,
& neither dimmed nor bright lites can be home's diminisher.

Hi [insert cat's name here], I'm home!
Feb 2017 · 1.2k
A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
2 Ls in Vivaldi font ported to snowblindness
(hierotippexed), who glid down
the wrong discipline, along the Stygian
stave of the  Atonality headlining
after the Tracheotomy of the Spheres.

A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
parabolic break action of snowman
shotguns, embonpoint tarred & cotton-
wooled, fires white flags. Flags up, starkly
conveyed upon black freshwater,  baggage
scanner at the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
the periscopes of ghost gnomes' U-boats
taking a gander (no geestimates!) at blackbrush
algae ops of Erebian Naiads. Or Arabian Night
Fever: anaemic Egyptians' one dancemove
cobraing from winged bicep, tricep breast.

A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
aristocratic mullets scalped & mobsurfing
a revolutionary river of le grand non lavage.
O cob & pen powercouple are giraffe
dove ducks, to the Sovereign as prosaic
as pigeons are to oiks of Eros, me & my bird.
accompanying illustration:
Feb 2017 · 905
Licing Home, 5
(Disclaimer: this poem uses naturalistic, mildly racist language in a context that in no way should be construed as inciting hatred. I  disapprove thoroughly of hatecrimes or any thuggish misconduct. However, everything I write is the contextual servant of my existential-nativistic ethos of  authenticity of expression, and so for me no vocab can be taboo. I also **** off Tories in this part of the sequence, who I really do hate)

Altho' all in  all, alone is NO NO NO, by way of contrast written so:

I recall how,as a young horndog in t/ heydecade
of my 1st serious wuveydovey shackup,
upon 1 rosyfingered hideout from hardgraft
I'd feign slumber, a superfluously surreptitious,
welcome ******,  
at my not yet ex dressing for work,
squinting l/ a **** under redlights on t/ fritz
at her slipping on her bra after embrocating
& talcing her ****. My perving gurn & ****** asthma
florally niqabbed by t/ duvet,  1 f/  a wankbank
of poignancy such privileged access to her
fragrant ritual. Feminine finesse at fresheningup
arcane to mucky man pulling Sid James faces
from an enclave swaddled in her
similarly suaveolent ladylike linen,  
luxuriously laundered, unlike bachelor bedding,
on more than biannual basis.
Man, that was t/ most home I'd known.

Or should I be down t/ Square
(musical interlude:
'Take me down to Anglia Square,
t/ Poles &  t/ Pakis & t/ *** 'uns shop there
- O won't you please take me home, yeahayeahair!
Take me down to Anglia Square,
where everybody's got grease in their hair
- O won't you please take me home, yeahayeahair!
Take me down to Anglia Square,
t/ pikies & t/ paydaylenders rob there
- O won't you please take me home, yeahayeahair!),
anyway, should I be there
& my craggy babyblues home in on
t/ gravid grace of some cutiepatootie ma-to-be,
I wonder would it feel l/ home
were I t/ 1 entitled to place
his ear to t/ mound l/ a doting Tonto?
Another soppystern Lplater pater
supersoonerratherthanlater, squatting reporter
upon t/ latest mulekick w/in her tum of tendertautness,
only this time listening out f/ a Lysandero?
Away in a manger, no lone ranger danger,
may my wife be plainer & my kid less crazier
than me & know no knitted wallart should read
'Hell Sweet Hell', even if hell's kitsch. En

route to my supportgroup one stormy purple morn,
along Hotblack Road which ribald vandal
had rechristened 'Hotblack ****', I beheld
an amorphous austerity origami
of abandoned rags, then twignified they signified
an abandoned man, when I noticed  t/ peeling Nikes
poking out of t/ abject coat. Risible shelter rising
l/ a premature pall, f/ he was still respiring
w/ a shallow rise & fall. Lastnite's
2litres of Jaywick champagne now a blackout
memento brimming w/ t/ brusque rain,
upon his bedsidecabinet kerbstone
prelude to a mortuaryslab.
I never saw his face, only his effacement,
as British winter waterfall
of  permanent staycation smashed down.

Y'know, that ****** graffito was halfrite:
to a Tory t/ pavement jockey plight
of another is l/ ****. But don't underestimate
how sublimated sadosexual delight
tingling in Tories  breeding destitution
is full Thatcherite frisson when they undomesticate
fellow native Englishmen, feralise us
into cold & white Hotblack Top Cats living in bins:
f/ climaxing spoil of squires in Tory classwar
is classic victory over t/ purely poor.
Yet, that crumpled bundle of person in t/ rain
could win Buck House in Corbynomic sweepstakes,
in republican raffle come t/ revolution,
but after being that homeless in yr homeland,
how could anywhere feel home again?
Feb 2017 · 1.5k
Licing Home, 4
L/ yesterdave, I can picture Glaswegian Dave
w/ his Robert Plant locks (sebaceous oils hairoically
serving this roughsleeping ****), embroiled in t/ usual
skelartries of vagrants w/ SKOL arteries:
sherry, ******, needlesheroin shenanigans
& shenanipettycrime. Tucking into some horse
w/ no need f/ a pairofteeth, after a Specialbrew aperitif,
then some post 'iccup pisticuffs w/ crabby cabbies
down Tesco taxirank. They drove away, but he drank
& stayed & stayed & stayed. Dave
also got my grunger brother from another mother,
Koopa Trooper's lil' sis in t/ familyway at 14. Kudos
to underage Liz tho', being wooed
by such a tatterdemalionmaned skaggis,
Sideshow Boabbarneted smackonteur
- love is, after all, showbiz. Anyhoo, 1 time
Glaswegian Dave regaled me w/ a gouch down memorylane,
of riding pillion on a furshlugginer chromeboneshaker deathtrap,
revved by a fellow ******* porridgewog across
t/ Forth Bridge at breakneck Braveheart brums,
a Highlandwind afroing his Robert Plant mane
(preserved so remarkably,  I must reremark,  
by sebaceous oils, despite a lifetime
on t/ slabs & on t/ tiles), w/ a deathwrap
of Deadly Nightshade, belladonna sellotaped
under his armpit. Dave davulged that  t/ trick
was to rip that bellotaped selladonna
off t/ 2nd  you felt toxin titillate
t/ ******-attic sweet spot, or
'Ma hert widhae exploded, laddie, at 90 miles an oor!

A typical Gen Xer deathwish teen at t/ time,
that oxterry devil's cherry deathcultmystery
& armpit raspberry to life, Atropic trip
on a murderbike sounded l/ a ride home to me.
If anyone considers 'porridgewog' racist, they really need to get a life.
Feb 2017 · 555
Licing Home, 3
Home is t/ telepathic folkballad silvercrooned
to my silvermatter by that rotund Hermes,  frozund Mercury,
albino Mr.Man, Our Moon. Eerie ivory intimation I'm already
home, here on this eigengrau cyclepath
by t/ jaundiced fields just past
Marlpit ironbridge, where sickly Wensum splutters
into a polluted ditch, next to black herbaceous border,
that may immure but cannot olfactorily obscure, inure
one's snotlocker against sloughboattochinabound
mercaptang of t/ Council Tip.

Nominal greenspace w/ brownfield ambience,
wastrel woods, where I am quite at home
is Marriot's Way about midnite, when hushwings hoot
& t/ local ****** calls it a nite, afflicted let us pray
w/ karmic droop. Nitecycling home thru my true home,
these scabby woods that poetically jostle up
my ancestral ******* Vikingblood, as reflective oversocks
get sploshed by my birthright turnip mud.
Housebroken by Woden, or maybe just
grewup slobberedover by Black Shuck
- O Shuckie duckie, mwah mwah!
& Diana t/ Hunter was my Pa.
Here's multiple choice quizzler f/ nil pwah:

is Our Sun, stella domestica:
(a) a Jewish mother from t/ planet Krypton
      readybreking Kal-el as she henrykvells
(b)a slumlandlord w/ a weathermachine,
     who serves eviction notices of drought & famine
or (c) a ******* foreigner stowedaway upon
      a resonant gravitational bounce off t/ Milky Way's
      Spiral Arm from 2000 lightyearsago, coming over here
      from Stellar Cluster M67, making all this trouble?
Marlpit iron bridge, Marriot's Way = Norwich landmarks
Black Shuck = the Hound of the Baskervilles of Norfolk
I'm sorry but I just don't like you in that way.
Yes, I know you'd work like a Pole,
mortgage your soul,
shovel **** in cold bitter
as a Borderline love lyric
for me and my baby girl.
I know you'd keep the vampires from the door,
man up to the big bad wolf,
fling yourself full square
into the fangful furnace of a dragon
to buy my baby girl and I precious seconds.
I know you'd be our sacrificial
human bridge on a sinking ship,
subdue your sweat reflex
so we wouldn't slip.
I know'd you'd be a doormat,
I know you'd be a hard nut,
I know you'd hunt and gather,
I know you'd beg and borrow.
And I know

you'd listen to my every childhood fear,
that everything I've ever suffered
would move you to a poet's tears,
then you'd hunt down my abusers,
every last one, and give them a taste
of backstreet Cockney justice
in a lockup garage.
I know

you'd pull yourself together forever,
renounce the sauce, the juice, the tabs, the gear,
all that diehard dieeasy despair at the bottom
of the battered heart of you.
And, mummified in nicotine patches,
buddy up to all mankind, be a crusader without rest
for a world that might even begin to be a beacon
of anything good enough to guide my baby girl
to eternal safety, just that I might enjoy peace
of mind whilst I live and after I die. I know

you'd go everywhere I've ever wanted to see,
anywhere I've ever wanted to be, no matter
how hard people are for you. I know

you'd become the world's foremost scholar
of the Karma Sutra, a
supple sinewy spidery suitor,
that my ******* would be the pinkest pearl
in the least seedy, most respectful
*** museum ever opened.
And that you would be its
Gollumesque curator, attentive
to an extreme, lickpolishing it even after you're spent.
so it ruddily radiates in evermore
innermore ******* strobe,
hard light of my sensuality in forever-1st-time-like
rush and flush of perfect play gentle and rough.
You would be my Gollum but with a better bottom,
in a crotchless deepsea diversuit were that my kink.
In bed, my Drop Dead Fred, my disgusting best friend.
Postcoitally, we'd strip down
to our inner children,  you would remind me
laughter is the ****** of the child.  
I know

to you my ******* would always be the perfect *******,
however the autumn of the female form might fall,
that you'd squeeze them thru out the night from fitful
fear my glories won't be there *** morning. Or clasp
my little finger in your sleep like an instinctively
worshipful newborn. And
however stout and selfaccepting and Rubenesque
in domestic bliss I become, due to everyday Valentine's
pralines and your fussing, lifeextending homecooked
meals, I know you'll still stay trim, get down the gym,
splash on some aftershave, put on a nice shirt,
in case I desert you for the next Jackthelad. I know

there'd be so many trails of rosepetals to our boudoir,
so many silken rosepetals on the silk bedsheets
you'd be in hock to Harrods for, that the hooverbag
would be like a florist's returning from holiday.
I know

that when you're ancient as Mummra and his spirits of evil,
you'd spend a pharaoh's ransom on ******
just to make me still feel attractive, run
your arthritic fingers with difficulty thru my blue rinse.
And if I know anything,

it's that you'd write me a poem everyday,
illustrate like a whitehot monk
all the fantasias for children I've ever
idly imagined a fulfilling moneyspinner.
I'd be a Gala to your Dali
without all the twisted ****. I know

we'd be the Broadland Brangelina,
that if it ever came to it, one phonecall
after twenty years and you'd fly to me
like an angel from back in the day,
adopt my Accrington Stanley
football team of other men's kids
and lead them up the leagues. I know

you'd lie for me, die for me,
change for me, stop being strange for me.
I know

you'd lie for my baby girl, die for my baby girl,
change for my baby girl, stop being strange for my
baby girl. But

I'm sorry, I don't know what to say,
I just don't like you in that way.
Feb 2017 · 745
Licing Home, 2
Home is t/ era premobilephone. & home
should be t/ Special One (I don't mean Jose Mourinho,
I mean you, my Dark Cow) texting me 'Coo-ee!'
from Ground Control, coaxing yr Hailey's hedgehog
doing crunches across t/ onhigh not to drop
& do 10, but to
       drop l/ jaws that
drop l/ drawers
         drop on Maddermarketactors'  bedsitfloors
        drop to mattamores that
               drop to mr.chadosaurs,
but I only dropped in on t/ tropopause
to lance t/ shebang skies w/ my
quills of deepfried icecream space rabies, bristling
on brink of comingback. Home

to t/ storm of Youall, Allyou who brontopoodle below
at such places as Seathwaite Comicon,
Jemimah Puddleduck cosplayers imprinting,
ellisislanding in t/ cloudburst to belong,
a rare chase variant home.
Suchwhere as my Dark Cow's tiggywinkle cometkins
had only ever hoped & so could neverhope
to pitch his crater, never my sub/domicile to crash
at in a finding blanch
(antihomeless spike dugs of a rejectionatrix in atch).

Home is in or out, even & especially f/
erinaceous poet aster more fugue than fuego.
In anticipation, I've already parkoured
on galilee pads up t/ raindrops, 'gainst t/ graindrops
& thru a kristallnacht scratch in this draughty
pleasuredome, blew my nose & moved on.
& so t/ deal is cast
l/  President Pomeranianhead Donald J.TRUNT
w/ his arm in plaster after his unyuge
grubhook fractured whilst rokemsokemrobopunching  
******* by t/ jellicleload; so t/ die is sealed
l/ a fly in amber or a Spiderman in mylar: leave

f/ a home I may never know until & if & evenafter
I arrive in time f/ any hometime, f/ some
Heraclitean breathingspace  where I might stretch
my herisse coma; leavin' f/ a heliosheathean, Lethean
heaven in an incommunicado sonicboom,
w/out so much as a pulsar's
come-on from afar or an 'E.T. phonehome'
(also my era).
Maddermarket =small local theatre in norwich (this poem is sponsored by the Norfolk Tourist Board)
Feb 2017 · 508
Licing Home, 1
Potamoisi toisin autoisin embainousin, hetera kai hetera hudata epirrei*, Heraclitus

Home is overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens,
t/ green fuse that drives t/ weeds thru t/ roached rust.
Home is an old stoner blazing up for 1st time in a wily,
Bach's Air on a Gstring rastabillyskank stylee.
& other stillborn whimsy in ascension daze
of velvet donuts & cobalt monoxide boas,
sinuously flailing to t/ top of mi old
pleasuredome (ex-ape apex I can't think off right now),
l/ my house clearance oeuvre casting about
f/ sickness footnote from a psychagogue
worth a deathbed namedrop.
But Afagdu beats Argus everytime, so before
pretty Paranoia flutters her abyss of eyes,
flyjars my headspace in a sparagmosphere
of cylindered sniggers & canned scopaesthesia,
this little poet went whitey whiney ennui
all t/ way... Back to life, well t/ past, home
to my 1st song:

'We are t/ ****** skyvers, we fly l/ t/ spiders
summer soughs walloped off gossamer homes.
Drugs  & jobs are much of a muchness,
you do both uptill t/ tomb strikes one.'

But that 1st broken home of teenage drossomer
was a paperhouse skinnedup by a long pig
& shrugged to t/ ground by  a sinkhole tonic solfa
rightoutta redlionlane of that deafdumblind
white dwarf wolf, Indifference.
Who blewout my lucky stars l/ emphysema,
t/ thunderthiever from Nietzsche memers
& wheezers who are dreamers of kneesers,
1 last memoryfoamparty in Ibiza.
Big bad meh
left my own homing howl hanging f/ all time,
was no more worthwhile wolf who windsheared
sheep of home off my loner's fallow.
No shadowy plot, just a plot of shadow, any
razed far more fundamentally than simply at t/ foundations.
I am a walking long shadow, talking to t/ long shadows
of walking home late longago.
Potamoisi toisin autoisin embainousin, hetera kai hetera hudata epirrei:
"Ever-newer waters flow on those who step into the same rivers."

Larkman = Norwich council estate
I, Mister Fantastic

Treadleoparded winner of Human Bridge Of The Year.
Walter Raleigh impersonator  upped ante, Putinchested
come fetishised rainy days.  Stethoscopes seem skinks
when you're all over the place. Shoeshine stars:
wicked stepmothers banished to puddle worlds  
coo Saturn's nipplering of  ripples (lace of the fractal:
Saturn's ruff of shingle; bootboy big bangs).

II, The Human Torch

Orange & Blue attend marriage guidance, where
she kvetches she should have converted to Mormonism,
married into a spectrum harem. Over Veruca Salt Lake City,
a virga of fire & ropenado of foam scout's honoured
each other. You & I a diabolo, hipster-huckster trust exercise
(bobbin on margins, string on the fringe, circus outriders,
but aren't all lovers?)

III, The Invisible Girl

Topesthesia thru the enveloping ******* weft
of '7 Minutes of Heaven' w/Death. Inverted eartrumpet
nose& throat man is an aardvark snoring his heart
into my bell jar blowup doll.Beauty is in the socket
of the possible soulmate in the classifieds gibbet.
Pink segmented 'YOLO' on Wormsapp, little too late
to sweep you off your feet or even get under them.

IV, The Thing

Crystal Vs. Bruise, heavyweight murmur of the world.
Murrine London bus kraken of strap-ons acupressurised
into  white elephant algorithm, spreadsheet shards.
The Slab is omnipresent, immanent, engorged discovery
of dark gravity, like Langoliers under the floorboards, fanged
kingfishers by day (cryogenic robin redmouths thorned like
dybbuk boxwood pinocchiosks)

Vfinger, H.E.R.B.I.E
                                       gr  ee-
            ­                 isseanwretchauric
                  ­             nchina #autho-
                                erofmyheart #-
                ­                licingplanet #-
              ­                  rslavesinmock-
                                erskins #charm-
                                astheyrape  #re-
     ­     cycleastheypillage #glacialimagegloba-
lvillage #poetsofinferiortruemodestywritinglikemarti-
anangels #fuckthatbutnotahagwivatashobvs #afternot
   ­  ecandidacy #hisgeniusisdemonweneedlitteralair-
          y  #trumpbrexitcam­    dencobainfordaily
see my concrete cockerel doggerel in technicolour:
Feb 2017 · 619
Treacle Tart (lyric)
She’s burned all her bridges
and boiled all her bunnies,
and her perfect body’s means to an end
now she’s a ******.
But if you see my Treacle,
tell her I’ll settle the speedball bill,
be her doormat doubling up
as her springboard outta hell.
And if you see my Treacle,
tell her I’ll treat her better than Rico
- I’ve got a Crisis Loan to burn,
but he’s the Man With No NINO.

Should you clock my Treacle, I entreat you relay
my mobno and the emotional pull
never changed.
I saw the Suffolk Strangler’s been put away,
but no night’s okay for a babe on the game.
So if she’s sick of the shame,
or does it just look like rain,
O my Treacle ****, your childhood sweetheart
is coming, I’m a-coming to save the day!

And if Tania, Paula, Gemma,
Anneli and Annette were here today,
who amongst us would say
rescue is a reverse charge away?
Who amongst us would say
don't need to see no rebirth,
you 'ready are my shining way?
Who amongst us would say
no souls need to be saved
so long as they’re safe?

And just make sure you tell my Treacle
how my tears did trickle
lacrymal crystal treacle
when grapevine had it gospel
she were down like a hubba pigeon
in last straw ******* act o' suction,
her yale served on a badman’s bell.
She don’t havta turn one last trick
for a top-up card,
text freedom for 17p or just reverse that charge.

If you *** across Treacle in your travels,
set her straight:
she don’t havta love me to stay.
They say Saucy Jack’s long in the Thames,
but life is never gentle for dem demi-monde dames,
ratgirl Roxannes who frequent the needle exchange.
So my Treacle ****, your childhood sweetheart
is coming, I’m a-coming to save the day!

Anneli, Anneli...
NINO= National Insurance number, DWP acronym
Feb 2017 · 601
Dead Dishes
I’d need a JCB to prise
teastain from the bottom of this
greasy spoon heirloom. When it comes
to shitholes, I’m no Sherlock Holmes,

but fleas with their vaulting powers
make the cat their Alton Towers.
Don’t need magnifying glowers,
monocles passed round in wrappers,

to see scato-chateau ain’t sterile,
the Algarve for C-difficile!
Dregologists’ microscopes peeled,
new stewed species charmug congeals.

I’m kitchensink Darwin scannin’
tannin. Only sure I’ve survived when
sleeve’s splished! Life I’m elbowdeep in,
elbows up to elbow creak in

deadman’s creek: means ***** dishes.
Elbows pointless in an abyss,
thus washing-up is weird privilege,
before my elbowgrease creep gives.

The cemetery’s one big exit
with two entrances (know you’re not
if you think you are, death and thought
are opposites). By car or cart:

fear of hindleg manoeuvres gone,
unless pranked by reincarnation
- karmic horsefly botherin’ Dobbin
(within the hoof hides the coffin);

nor fume flu, car nausea’s cured
by hearse if you’re guest of honour,
the Goner. Keeps on giving, the
gift of being took forever.

And when I am Long John Goner,
will the loved one or do-gooder
who washes my dishes ponder
how grotty things got with horror?
Feb 2017 · 446
Deathreat Notes, Final
Deathreat Men: send them to Wormwoodscrubs
before they send us to Heaven, that hirise open prison
Theserpent on community service scrubs,
coiled round God's telescopic mop of seven drawtubes,
whilst those who never did no wrong perdure
thru harpyclappy purgatory of praise 'n' orison,
where yawn even those saints whose patience
commands hagiolatry amongst the other saints.
Another round of kumbayah on goddy guitar
even has the canonised crowd covet deaf frets
or tempted to trespass into the path of a passing
as it reaps, threshes and winnows the sheep from the goats.
Heaven makes Bawburgh look a partytown,
reciting the Lor'prurgh means thine is the humdrum, the snorer
and the boring forever and ever, oh man...It's only Heaven
coz there Azrael is a dodo; there's no
repomonstrous, osseous, controversial figure
in a cowl by the name of  SkullymcSkullface
in Heaven's Who's Who.  There, there's no
mortality to terminologically
qualify that ultimatum which is the M.O.
of the Deathreat Men:
no death to define what is weapon.
But there isn't really any God to own a drone called Azrael,
so how can Obama's drones be Raguels?
Therefore there is no Heaven
other than the Earthly Death Of All Deathreat Men,
other than an ironic forest of scaffolds
it's only human not to build in a day.
Any more to it than that and we're on
a superstitious hiding to nothing,
and may as well redeem Deathreat Men by reclassifying them
Chaoschristians, who by lucky fatal accident
bring forward our freedom from their sins
when they do us in.
Bawburgh = diminutive village outside Norwich
Jan 2017 · 591
Deathreat Notes, 10
Deathreat Man sends jazzcops, knacker of the knockingshops,
vicesquad packin' - undercover, but they ratted themselves out
and away with hamradioreceiving wired rainmacs and hamacting.
Deathreat Man 10-4'd the interference from Kojaks with Kodaks
in their underdaks, who'll win no lifeimitatingart bitpart in 'The Bill'.
But Deathreat Man can't coast and cotch it yet, coz Deathreat Mansion is still apugwash with picaroon scrut DVDs, e.g. 'Captain Mike Oddpeace and Ye Comeliest, Wenchiest Trickarse Skanks of Albion',
'United Nations of T'n'A: Resolution 69247',   'Celeb Gilfs,
Vol 11: the Royal Jubblies' and other semenal skinema
fuzzboxoffice hits, tho' Deathreat's sno-res copies
will have you hitting the fuzzy box.
Jan 2017 · 567
Love I'nt (Lyric)
Why bother with another lover?
Won’t it feel the same as when we felt the same?
‘Slike changing the sheets for a repeat
of last week’s wet dreams.

I thought I loved my playground sweetheart;
thought it was love, my first proper relationship.
Thought I loved the mother of my kid
and thought I loved my shortlived 2nd wife.
And really felt something all those rebounds and ships in the night.
And I think I still love you.

I still love my playground sweetheart.
I was in love my first real relationship.
And I still love the mother of my kid.
Long live my love for my 2nd ex-wife!
It meant something all those rebounds and ships in the night.
And I will always love you too
with half my heart.

Forever and ever to have and to hold
is a troth plighted by hormonal goldfish
in a heartshaped bowl.
Yes, it’s true and, alas, it’s sad: O my son,
I became a man when I realised my mum
would leave my dad
at the drop of Tom Jones’s hat.
Till amnesia or someone better,
or next time I’m 3 kingsize duvets
to the wind, us do part.

A man called Alan in a nutshell nailed
the unbearable lightness of love,
when he told his lover, the fairish Sonia,
‘I love you…sort of.’
After all, haven’t we all
half empty, half full
hard bleeding hearts?

Forever and ever to have and to hold
is a troth plighted by hormonal goldfish
in a heartshaped bowl.
Yes, it’s true and, alas, it’s sad: O my son,
I became a man when I realised my mum
would leave my dad
at the drop of Tom Jones’s hat.
Till amnesia or a Dear John letter,
a drink driver or  venial sin
or you wise up and us do part.

But it won’t have been in vain:
I will always love you with half my heart,
at least half my heart…
'I'nt' = 'isn't' in East Anglian dialect
Jan 2017 · 4.2k
Deathreat Notes, 9
But it wouldn't hurt to send a Yakuza biker called Keyser Suzaki
as an agent of embracery, who'll hurt any justice nuts amongst
the jury, mow Magnacarta hardliners down doubly with his sports-
bike and his katana. For should goddess Pomeroy pointedly
forgot to blindfold prove totem like Diphoterine t'any o'
that 12, who should have been crying blind ( tho' their
intimidator was trained in Tokyo Road Rash Kendo,
not sprayin' Captor), then they'll send Deathreat Man
to deathrebtors' gaol in a blackmaria like Batman's campervan.
Jan 2017 · 792
Deathreat Notes, 8
Giovanni de Stephanopheles sends
Deathreat Mansion the invoice for sending
the CPS to the cleaners, specifically
Satan's charladies, who all have legal degrees.
Deathreat Investments' reptilian rapsheets
for commercial sociopathy are as long as your arm,
but if it was your arm, Giovanni could take it off
at the shoulder as it simultaneously signed
a binding disclaimer. Legal evil eagle disbarred
from that courthouse in the clouds,
Lucifer's own excuser, whose astucious loopwork
corruptly crocheted disparate threads and yarns
into a delicately embroidered load of old rope.
The defendant, Mr. Lifreat Esquire, acquitted
coz he looked genteel as a doily, courtesy
of Giovanni's barristerial blarney.
Like a public image pay 'n' spray's the Oldbailey
if you're rich, when you got the pockets for an oily
sophist, who'll repaint the past in warm colours
of character references paid for over the computer,
paint a glowing portrait in bloodstain remover,
dim the Luminol via denial's retroactive history hoover,
once the jurors 'ave been jellybrained
by sheer weight of Giovanni's argumentativeness,
as he silverbungedly houdinifies the Croesus Kray
whodunnit from a sinking padlocked trunk,
labelled 'Sheer Weight Of The Evidence'.
Jan 2017 · 584
Elephant Juice (Lyric)
There is a babe online I talk to from time to time and her name is Clairey-Lou.
She lives in Worcester on the other side of the country, prolly never will rendezvous.
She got big doe eyes that make Bambi's eyes look positively beady.
She likes to mix salad cream and mayonnaise... and baby they say I'm crazy?!
She's in love with a guy called Harvey, but he won't start a family 'case two lost bubbies sends Clairey loopyloo.

And sometimes when we sign off, we write 'Elephant Juice'.
Clairey-Lou says your lips make the same movements
enunciating E.J. as when you say 'I love you'.
I don't know why we text it, but it's nice.
It's like our way of saying I don't love you IRL,
but let's enjoy a fantasy that if we met, we might.

Her BFF is Bridie, they're always posting giggly selfies so full of joy
I crack a smile.
She works in Premier Inn, her cupsize is EE, her troll on FB is called Gabriel.
She says I am a hotty, but if you're being complimentary, you might find my name is Terry Teflon.
O girl in Worcester, d'yer know who you're talking to?
Mad old poet with cuts 'n' tats, pet'll set off catishoos.
Bless you girl in Worcester,  dunno who you dream you're talking to,
not some sad old poet who's stissed and poned, crooning Clairey-Lou.

And sometimes when we sign off, we write 'Elephant Juice'.
Clairey-Lou says your lips make the same movements
enunciating E.J. as when you say 'I love you'.
I don't know why we text it, but it's nice.
It's like our way of saying I don't love you IRL,
but let's not destroy the fantasy that if we met, we might.
Elephant Juice, Clairey-Lou, or should I say EJ CL, xxxxx.
Jan 2017 · 673
Deathreat Notes, 7
Deathreat Man sends a My Little Pony minus a body
to the Corleonasi, but he ain't no brony, only
demonstratin' stones so stonking
that Don Cagni di Lacey cups his own coglioni
in his mafiablack incontinence *****,
sobbing dishonourably, like his ladycop namesakes
off the box, were they on the beat and on the blob.
Jan 2017 · 478
Deathreat Notes, 6
Deathreat Man sends thanks
to Officers Cholesterelli and McNana
at the Ohioklahomissourizonachusetts Sheriff’s
departmentstore defenderate (or whichever 2bit
anencephalic granite bigot unit had
‘International War on Terror’ in its
mallcopalyptic intray by error).
coz they’ve given Deathreat Men free reign
to… C’mon, do I havta sayitagain,
it’s even in his ****** name!
For those donuthole omphaloskeptics and
gumbo java guzzlers, stateside jumbo gava
ordered tithatted Brit counterparts
on a wild keystonecob of a goosechase,
extracting Omar Khan Sharif tariff,
which isn't a tipoff but the tip of a nightstick
up the schnozz of a Londonstani lad
on his way to Blackchapel mosque in the smog.
The Macpherson Report a spoilsport for melaninintolerant
bobbies, but they can still cosh the chocolate God
right outta Banglajabis ’n’ Pundeshis - afraid
it ain’t yet confined to the pages of Haralambos, guv
- only nowadays the Old Bill says he’s helping Nato
search every nuke and Qurannie.
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