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Aug 10 · 591
Sewer Sequence
'Way from Kraken gurgle, Harpic Sarlacc, full-
throated Flush Monster, back to bed I'd hurry
during the weeing hours o' childhood mornindigo.
When Percy points at the porcelain, the porcy
lain points back at Percy.

Used & abused water
levelling
more than the icon, Sea, but at that age,
I don't suppose I was thinking
of fatbergs & rat kings,

****** miles of shiteating grim
fundus, universal bucket leaking in each
bubble's corner.
No carminatives, no angst, no Armitage H.
Shanks: incorporeal the wretch

Insta-famous. 'Dontcha believe it!'
answers the ****, the ****
of Om. Ad profundum,
do sewers need hellcraft?
Don't forget to...Baptismal epitaph

of **** is abysmal, craptismal
welcome to our round world
via u-bends sinister. Whole scatolocus
be curved crud, our home clod
w/ its bogs of cod.

But thru the eye of a needle our narrow
focus takes us
down the Euroshopper **** canal flannel channel
to where kermit quack deterges
(from a high grate) Kermit the Crocodile's scales,

wargreen as a black Atlantic gator.
I am the eggbound, goo goo
g'jobbie! But it's time to putaway such childish things:
in reality, the Ninja Turtles' HQ
is covered in poo.

& verrucas ebola ebolasalt logorrhea logonorrhea
semolinapilchard eczemacetera. Stereotypical-
ly British/puerile/Licean to
stir urea o' tepid pools,
torpid stools, fool-

hardy too, lest guileless sewage
triumfartly splurts
from madid, olid mouse 'oles.
Horizontal geysewers l/ foudroyant
hydrants of tempted fate,

rumble thy smellyful! Revacuate, adobe draftexcluders
miasmatic! Revoid, renal vino! & muckup halcyon
skirtingboards! A soapy bath concludes the
amphisbaenian
dirtyspines

coprocobraing in Pythagorrhea of ricoshite.
Feeshus lept, Jesus wept! Misfortune we miss
is the best luck, so thank Chod such an agitplop
contraflow of floaters against th'Effluent is
not forthplumbing. Eccrisis

is natural, nitrous, noxious
& necessary, our meconium island babies.
But nothing pooing is sweetsmelling nothing doing,
blows unblocked felicity in my
direction (an angel's cloaca of invisibility).
Jul 11 · 492
Dimferno
Morning has broken,
a borning worth mocken.
Warden Sun slurks
up, looking for all the world
l/ lastterm's teabag still on the kitchencounter
of student who spent her summerjob corporatively
manslaughtered.
Splendid morningsafter are Sky
Fawkes's housewarmings of no fixed abode,
but this mildew morning drizzturbs
sans amber clamour, dockwork
orange & aubade-bleed into poetic carparks.  

O aubergine azure!
Lumbers me w/ a langour impure.
Busman's holiday for Helios in Goshen,
unlike Lyartsander fullofwoe & Wednes-grey,
who would choose chota hazri
of vit.d, at least  
a monkey's
wedding, over yet another hyetal heist
of a perfectly fine day.
At chirruped shatter of Tirralira FM,
who was up in a haze
of coffee & tea, smuggled miracle days?

Begrudged continuous miracle, rife
w/ nice lives, but life's
not such a luckyfind, merely
the strife galling forth pluck that
binds lackies to cells
& latchkey legacies. Habitforming titration
to the tritical, the trivyelled
9-5 shadiness, 24/7 extinction,
our most unapish aspirations working their notices. Rats
sinking to the bottom of the ballast dew. Shagnasty
nescafelife, REALInotmycupofTY. Good
Morning Godot Depot Of Affoisted Dusthood!

FYI all jentacular pollyannas,
lastnight I watched a doc or 3 on ******'s pyjamas,
as well as a reality show on the morrisband
from
Broadmoor.
Then News
24 till 4.
Now scooze
me if some
seminal television starring Rowland
Rivron has got me allsentimental on being cynical:
TV listings tomoz promise small hours of cultural miracles.

Summer in the city should be
mongogenic as Mungo Jerry's
'Summer In The City'. It is in a way:
the glaw, it glaweth everyday.But
the sun still lit up a
mole l/ a fox - scintillatingly flinches Jupitertawn,
Jupiter-
fawn.
The Hyades stayedput,
so best return to stertor, study
a gaseous sleeperhold in the sandman's yoga class,
heuristically: carpe diem cras.

Pesky petitbourgeoisie
in their lobrid SUVs
transport portliness to transport
links, once sofas & fruitbowls
relinquish jingly
ignitors. Balance due to the diurnal toxins, the dismal poisons,
the regnant moral obscurity:
the outlook looks bright for those who'd like one
last great fireball
gig, globalised vespertine slagheap
of Kali Yuga. Endgame encore is ongoing
bomb of -yawn - sameold brandnew obnubilant morning.
Apr 3 · 629
Hater's Leap
A-frame bridge, no.254.
Why did they send the cavalry of the Crown,
not a chef adept at jigsaws?
Ontologically opting out of the
Damocles' fleatouch 1st person pronoun.
Ache kind of socialow luckemia
has culminated in this reckoning,
this personal brevima, the scheduling
of my release from this 40-year-old-****** hellhole.
Milk slit strike at the coconut shy of souls.
From a brittly hylic, embittered high place,
velocity tenderises me once & forall outofplace.

Such a beautifulday I must be serious,
the sun
vs.
Pipistrelle Daddy Destro:
for a few seconds, equals. The News Of The World won,
David Scarboro.
To spite the 1 I pined for ad infinights,
outofhiding in my vespertalactite,
to go down cyancowled
l/ sunnier owls,
down down t'azure turnups o'er ******
sock clouds of birdman w/ deflated waterwings.

We're not talking flash-flight, falling w/ (sky's
cramped) style, Golden Gate weightlessness, wirefu
knotted matter maquettes in jazz gravity.
More SPLAT! l/ birdcrap or a crap bird,
claret scree, ****** mannequin. Blue
remembered
hamon of a sayonara
skyarama
impales the seppuku diver upon
broadestsword, the East Anglian plateau alone.
Or fool's gold fall. Quadriplegic at end of the rainbow
(******* ineluctable rainbows).  

Join the fall & fall & noyade of lemmpires
on the mal voyage to clay again.
Out of der freie geist & into the fire
via impact, if we bolt this bottomless hollow
to be chastised by childabusers Charlemagne
chartered. But who's playing follow
the leperdoctrinist anymore?  I'll chin
the sun heavier than Hedd Wyn's
mourning cloaked Chair, as I take the earnest lemming way,
prince des nuees, rather than walkaway,
crippled for life.
Keep albatroshin'? Ol' bor, toss yourself off

a cliff rident that fits & locks clithridi-hate.
Or the Iron Bridge or some other local highledge
for the coming true of weight
when local legends exit cute.
Nice hand aids swigs for cynic the edge
hugs, but, lo, Green Hill Zone's killzone. Put
on a happyface l/ Spike at the asylum
or do it, dona nobis pacem.
Raspberry suicide notables,
gooseberry suicide notables,
for whom quiet
chap fallen finds his pizzazzphalt.

Fast brakes of champions prefer their egos sunnysideup,
but my last basket, she left w/ the very 1st *******.
Tell my mother it wasn't suicide: 'oops!'
Ego squeals creanced to a limping quacker,
human Kohoutek who fuzzily thuds
into circus teacup of Wensum, pate de parkour.
From a phrontistery
rookery
for emo dodos, sneerical bartizan,
I'll vertically powerflounce, pronk like Zebedee Zyban
at the speed of gary t'wards bananaskindeep peaceofmind
over precipice of all the cabinwalls I've feverishly climbed.

Tell my mum it wasn't suicide,
I was Brodie Fayed.
& that the Deep State was behind my head-
er off the Iron Bridge or some local highledge
(all the birdies flyed
from a beachy hedge).
I
had a nightmare I could fly.
The peace that passes all understanding
is not a soft landing.
Gravity, be
my supercomputer of mahasamadhi.
Mar 15 · 1.5k
Unrequiticide
Loameo, Decomposeo, Scaremoleo, Romeo RIP.
A sazhen deep l/ a kulak, kozy.
Down here, hic jacet Jared, or some other
hick l/  me, face it. Grauballe greenhorn's chia
pet ***** moss my roof, arbuscules anagenic.
Ignomio in nightsoil, netty Chthonically kerbkicked.

Dirt heart of dark heath, a daft felodese.
What did my dark daffodil periscopes see?
A merry widow that reneged midway on the pact.
Ethereal barefootedness on my deadman's doormat.
No Elysian toejam on  brazen untumbling Jill.
Julie Judas, whose stayed hand waives a ne'erdofarewell.

Her sweetheart leprous w/ wet weapon seepage
of winterstices. Yellow leather thews fuel spoilage,
foison of the fomes my former foison bequeathed
to Nitrogen's garden, gravestrewn global glebe.
My mournedover mould, from my Morlock Tafilafet,
sprighettis dustland & brushbowl, on rebound from Juliette.

Waldeinsamkeit my plight, but a lil' lower
down I floundirt. The dead autistic as the flower,
that strains past the compost of my final
season of gas & mellow fertilicer, mortal fruitful
-ness, l/ that ribburst Deianira
(her freewill blackball, plucky gibbous bloodpear).

W/ that valiant apple, Apple Lily unravelled
zombie Eden. Julie-Eve  d'aujourd' hui resiled
tho'. Thus alone I fell thru this mortuary
orchard,  l/ a worm thru stewed apple, to dormitories
of mouldwarps. Atop my catabolism,
postapocalyptic allotments! No voar for alyssum,

not even upon the fullblown Ides. Her betrayal
harvest has the ecology gross w/ her turned tail's
martyr. Putridly, I pullulate a larval *******
of laurel bandages, Avalon Mole by recycling carnage
of some Pomona Braithwaite int'a Seamus Heaney
Swamp Thing sludge loved. Spleen spores, organic bicne.

Infusorians party in my tears. An epic lettuce
gloats where cartilaginous flap over my glottis
fingered stops of pickup artistry after Petrarch. A
backtracking princess of dwales, to Proserpina Harker
ceded me.  Bride of all corpses, bog queen boss of bosses
cannibalised Loameo, ironically, for locus amoenus.
Security
Please do not give
your baby to
anyone you do
not know
#foundpoem #margotpravdahardypearce
Feb 20 · 2.4k
When Whens End
When the dear donorcard bill's deliverance kills
& al-Keith McCamelton from Marakeshchester
inherits my corneas (I believe in unicorneas).

When I'm a recreational relic, comminuted & tooted,
chewed or voodoobied by a jejune hoochie *******
professional, Mama Shango - O that Mambo Sheena, she's a
ladydoctor of hooey! When my legbeforewicket bone a.k.a. shin,
not to menchin chin, grin, gelatin untoned (soamilar
to that o' Fatty Soames, who'll be quite a spread when
we eat the rich), & my fey ofay thighs
& my interthigh Fyffes (all fyffe inches), are finely ground
to a juju smeddum Mama Shango crumbles l/ homjom pollen
for a snirtle-haven even humdrum jumbies can't deaden.

When I'm a Uruguayan rugger teammate's
PTSDinner on an Andine ice plate.

When I'm past repulsive rasper, post-pulmonaryvascular massacre;
when I've given up my last gasp because I couldn't ever
make this gasper the last. When I've capitulated my Casper,
after gravel gurgle of my rale de la mort, after my outboardmotor
voicemail a la Monsieur Valdemar. When Alzheimer-
memorrhaging eulogists are ponderous & sotte voce,
as far removed as I at the time mine is up  
from the Fay Wrays, Screamin' Jays,
the rainbow rowdiness of orbling warbs & better days.

When I'm Senor Mucho Sueno, meeting Meesta
Mortimer Mortimer the missingmaker (this latter no
Gallup poll p'ruser, but that illimitable chooser
of every Ryan Otto Thyme from Calcutta to Corsica,
Kent to Lollapalooza). Whether gallbladder bleeders
or Gallipolosers, all of us were or will be absolosers
lapped like a catbowl by that mincemeat
mogul, Trim Reaper, jogging ahead to clock in
chisellaxed floruits where the hyphen's left hanging.  

When I'm dead as a coinop conversion,
depodiumed from 3initialled pantheon
of a special scartlead channel
for 8bitsprites' improbable kungfu,
by a hiscorewayman of the highest scorder,
Mombre's hombre & warriorthumbed wristola,
a lightening limpet on the d-pad
l/ Speedygonzalesterpiggot logrolling an e-dam home.
When I'm PK prey to this *******
of a flyingkickducker, some 'NewBieDie!'-greeting
PewDiePie-beating
finja-ninger l/  90s MooBiePie-
eating Arnold Schwarzensega of electronic yubiwaza,
Danny Curley. Jumplead cannulae in his Jabba The Shutt-in
bingo veins, Danny Curley foresees
w/ Pyrenese peerin' ease
my hadouken, counters w/ a shoryuken.
Game over. Fuqouken.

When I've gone beyond a shocking stroll
on a tumbledown terrain. When I'm jumbled
stoatskin unidentifiable remains.
When erstwhile strappingness is soil steroid,
gristle gift for the roses
'hind a urodorous hospice, when I'm lastminute
saprophytic herbal rohypnol for rose hipsters
(wifebeaters & musefloggers).
From a vulture's mulch blooms
damask artillery in the battle of the sexists,
botanical trope of blandishment
oftpictup w/ twenny Benson & Aspidistras
on a cancaining, Canaanwavy way home,
or requisitioned by a frugal doghouse ghoul
from gardens of engravings.

My carkedit plaque might caveat
'La vie was a lavvy but Eve was veal',
but Ms. Lilith Hewett,
she was sensual suet.
& my carkedit plaque might quote me that
'Life was ngandodowndilly wellingup for real',
yet fumiphant of  my crematory smignels
could divine Ms. Rosebud Bignold
16 again in a smile,  
in the cloud of my claripyre.
For when I'm husk past flames, hark the Sid James
squeal of my subcutaneous sizzling,
the memories of past glories haunter's quanta
among my charnel char, whithersoever it blows
once my urn's spurned.
In posthumous fernweh:
Nantucket, Hunstantucket, Saint-Tropez way?
Nah,the deadbody of a homebody
could not be more stuck in its ways.
For the dead are not so different to the living:
love makes us stay.
Bigorexia & Bonespiration
went to bed.
Bigorexia blew off
& Bonespiration was dead.

Torschlusspanik & Tidsoptimist
went to bed.
Torschlusspanik blew off
& Tidsoptimist was dead.

Jealousy & Compersion & Compersion
went to bed.
Jealousy blew off
& Compersion & Compersion & Jealousy were dead.

The ****** doors & Michael Caine
went to bed.
The ****** doors blew off
& Michael Caine was dead
chuffed.

Israel & Iran
went to bed.
Israel blew off
& everyfuckingbody was dead.
Jan 12 · 7.6k
Da PGP (MC Gouggherel)
I da Pimpled Goose ****,
seedybeat Fugazi cane.
Ain't no ganda down da farm
who got mo' game!

I da foie gras solja,
scarecrow shades on da bridge
o' ma bill dat's orange
like doin' Dixie porridge.

I da ***** Flocka,
mi gold chain read 'CAP'
- big shoutout ta da Common
Agricultural Policy!

O dat Monty Don
**** around like Donkey Kong,
when 'e shud be mi main man
down da plantation!

I da Thugly Swan
wit' da young G's zits.
Ma hooty beeyatch got
Wotsit flipperlips!

Wot good fo' da goose
is good fo' da gangsta.
She lay da golden egg,
turnin' tricks in de tracta.

Funkyard fleshialist
yo' honkin' ** needs:
bird sheet, wigga duck,
Chicken Town OG.

But when I's in da hoosegow,
who's in ma goose hoes?
It's dem alfalfa
desperadoes.

Farmer **** MacMuck,
Farmer Pygmalion,
Farmer Fab 5 Freddy
- ta me, dey all Farmer John!

Da's cookin' in da barn,
da's cathouse in da coop.
'Ged out!' I told da Ghettoad
O ' Toad Hood!

& all dem oinky donkies,
dem Snoop Hoggy Hoggs
know dat' if dem' diss me,
it be rainin' caps & doggs!

Buy da farm if ya cluck
amok wit' ya beeyatch talk.
Money Monty Don
chuck da muck wit'  da peeyatch fork!

Now mi feather up da heifer
& get mi beak freak on.
& when me pluck mi pustules,
dey iz pumpaction!

Now Monty Don freestyle,
'Sheer deep 'appyness
ya no spit 'less ya spittin'
sheepdip ya p-e-nis!'

Now MC Duckwhistle
wit'  da cornrow neckdo,
gonna get da gaggle waggle
ta 'is raspy kazoo:

'I not da Pimpled Goose ****,
I da Pimpled Goose **** Son,
& I's only pimpin' geese
till da Pimpled Goose **** come!  

I not da Pimpled Goose ****,
I da Pimpled Goose **** Son,
& I's only pimpin' geese
till da Pimpled Goose **** come!'
Jan 10 · 1.1k
Mnemo Muzak
In an internally persuasive discourse daze
of 'Derevaun Serauan, Derevaun Seraun',
down Dereham Road. Dereham Road. Howl Zion days,
when I was porngaunt, scoreborn.

When I was scoreborn to sweet cur boons,
wild enough to grow psychoplasmic clothes
'low Eurolupine, lyricicatriced moon
(sphere rose over spherical rose).

Poignantly porngaunt, less Ly-tran-der
than deadnamed Dirk Diggler w/ pork Trigger's broom.
Phalloplasty patched fiddler's frankenfurter,
'Wayne Karoshi' my clinical nom-de-plume.

Turn on, tune in & grow up a picayun-
icorn, inconsequential & unique. I coulda been
a downtown tribune, downtown tribune,
but the scoreborn pourscorn like a teen.

Down Dereham Road, Dereham Road of dented
leopard, dented leopard roadkill went doom-
dated whelps. They never repented
the nepenthe, coz scoreborn follows scar boom.

Whether '88, '99, zerozero, borngaunt jeune
squelettes, diaspora of scorers crunch
urban recurrences. Pusherman in the moon,
still ivory dealer of youth's lush putsch.

We skinned up on CD cases, the record sleeves,
& upon the vinyl & CDs. Smaze mauve room,
where mauvais foi of paranoia, twigs & leaves
blessed us blandiose blasphemers maroon.

Tales so slight, vignette vinegaroon
- 'least I chased my own, tho' Hounds of Ultrabox
tore out my tindervox at the gag of moon-
set. Most porcelain storm?  Mornshocked.

Urb cubs slowcooked less porngaunt.
Afa, gluggy, June gloom? Rejoice, it's June!
Youth is wasted, but monsters I'd haunt,
acolytes I'd slough? Gone the same/ remain too soon.
Louche tang of the berthafly ink on your nape
has me flushed glutton for its underclass umami.
'Cross a Newkie Brown kristallnacht-scape,
you: hither, blacken ballet pumps from Primani.

No rugbytackle on a hungry subtle jackal,
but it's risky (tho', tbf, not that risky)
to smuggle rumpled, prisonrolled rosepetals
int'a Dean Rhetoric afterworld for Daddy.

Whilst lukewarm ****'s a phoenix's acronyx,
asbestos gelos defervesces not, my frisky
alderliefest ticklish like Chi-nickel crucifix.
Life's too brisk: fake a risk (in itself quite risky).

A poet's the kinda herbert in Herbert Pocket's pocket,
who thinks risque lagniappe from Aganippe
is lock of autumnal pubarche from Humbert Humbert's locket,
in sink where gooseberries were electrolysised lately.

Flightless bard 'mid diorama of nephograms
(steppensheep nebula, staffage in matteshot sky),
*****, erm, Withwords, who broadsides how wrong I am:
'Heart's excrescences risk poesy's arty chokey'.

In rejectionslip braille hail, papercut rain
of masterpiece confetti do we live dangerously,
in mastertape conshreddi of 99 bandnames.
But headliner suicides win poetry lottery.

Shelley stunt of dying strangely, strangely young
cures a vocabullinachinashoplairy,
becomes Voynich manuscrap of Symbolist shantung.
Full circle: silk wormfood determines vellumworthy.

Vicious circle: rosa rosa razor est est.
Vicious Coriolis: life plugholing w/ the hoary
sullage, balneal bisnatchizzle, a stringvest-
al Virgil's dregs refresh t'highwater Dante.

For what BBQpid matchmakes man w/ Beatrice,
Stonkahontas tormeting an odd 'n' furry
berk, poet whose amrita is thridace
strain of th'infidelity toxin, Beauty.

Which is how the risky Manic defined the
entartete source of fishy fiances,
la beaute du diable. But hybristophilia
to scorpions of Venus, to Hell on a tray,

is flipbride of poet wailing to be her DWEM lover,
a foxynoxynihilipilification proxy
for transfiguration by association w/ bete noir
of Beauty: beta noir bards are Death's humerus candy.
bisnatchizzle = a *****'s ***** hair
Dec 2018 · 4.7k
Licey's Nit Couplets
1
Even the scene I was making was making a scene:
Rosencrantzandguildensternaredeadmachine.
2
I've been freed by friendlessness, so why do old pals
embitter w/ velleity a reunion can still rouse?
3
It's just I'm so swizzed by reading trueselfbydates.
Shawl, who is also called Pall; runagate who is also prostrate.
4
To the bull's eye, the hawkeye is palpable, tangible, felt
To the hawkeye, the bull's eye is palpable, tangible, felt.
5
Phone went. Atonement? Opponent. Alone meant
renewal of the same old selfentering entertainment.
6
Narcissistic conception: a privately bred clone
'tis my duty to bully, torture earnestly. One does one's own.
7
British Ionists don't even understand Zirony.
But I wish I was as simple as just contradictory.
8
Tragready? Incipit tragoedia: travesties hurt.
Like seeing my Riot Grrl swiothrrt in a 'Travis' tshirt.
9
Trillions killed during filming, fastforwarded orchids.
Cast of inexpendable heart oscitation deleted.
10
To einsof soft life on the air, we're lost. In the sour feast,
50 years' service is a ****** on the mantlepiece.
11
*******, mon semblance! Goose scry to the scaly
Torygraph; Presidented Gein; masSACREDad (God's Mochrie).
12
It takes CITV & CBBC & pre-DWP DSS & pre-DSS
DHSS to raise a child, not a Doubting Momus.
13
Dreamflounder, dreamfloater, dreambounder in a dreamboater.
English country Capgras bros. of a stranger in  an oater.
14
Nil admirari, ennui, omnui, zennui, nitchevo.
Yet buckaroo Love's hopingpong lives out my spermself's FOMO.
15
I foamed at the month, Lysember, annually,
for flavour of the mouth should be Oxyjanuary.
16
Sandwich artists, stationary bloggers & ancient astronaut
theorists all walked Jackonoryology in school reports.
17
'Sweirdly emasculating, like a tall grandmother,
how I cannot poetsplain the future or its lovers.
18
1,000 albino bishybarnabees rorschach the tragic
lantern: swarm th'only pattern of fatback TV static.
19
Negress of the World dreams of unio Mr.Car
in the cave of charades that's shrine to an umbra.
20
Afflatic calculus of tragic trajectories, romantic ratios:
lyricalgebra. Show my working: Statement of Aesthetics, Rothko.
21
Song of alien vitalism, Neanderthal Jesse Garon.
Prosody fit for Methuselated muse, Struldbrugg paean.
22
How clean is your dream disqualidayhome celebrikitchen
bug in **** conscience, Carol Vorderline? Pigpen's plugin.
23
Jack of Shapes, Jack of Ages, Jack of Doors, Jack of Cues.
Best of all possible Lords to follow? Serendipitous debuts.
24
The Devil writhes a kiddiefiddlin' schtick.
The Devil is a devout Catholic.
25
Pincered zen selfsparta builtsitting in what it's from:
cogito keeping its damnable cheek above fatsam & fleshsam.
26
I feel it so intensely: irony of ironies when I don't care.
Selffulfulling jelly w/ nothing to fear but fears nothing hears.
27
Experienshit, differenshit, definitely still ****, diffranchiser
of scheisser. Choken record: wist zither, aubade nebuliser.
28
You pick up. Seashellsussurus of a radioed purlieu.
Your crepitant crelp, monastic by virtue of ***** flu.
29
Bellybutton ash/blue & green dahlia: inner & outer bull
of bull's eye anthropocentrism. Both can & can't be too careful.
30
Hawkeye Bennu or other siderolite's solipsism
cuts short my nut cutlet nuncheon: absurdissimum prism.
'And when was this? I dunno, I dunno:
like everything else, twenty years ago.' - August Kleinzahler

I
Whosis slunk next to the rastamagnet
dj booth, in a limabeanhued suit
jacket, limabean sleeves rolledup to
deploy albino ancons for jostling.
II
My ****** lungs ached; gluttonous Venomised
pelicanbills. Cig o' no mercy, cig of life.
Serpivolent smoke is nicocreaming
ceiling of this dive Dasein dosses in.
III
Unrequiting snoutcloud of her chuffing
form siffles thru her mousy enamel.
'Light reflecting booster technology',
advertising Boswellox, scents her hair.
IV
Male Black Widow Complex boings in my brain,
as the vogueress exits conceivable zone
of address. Yet she cigawrenches
my stalking thoughts across the pumptup ballroom.
V
O those farouche salad nights following
swotting up in the humid Octagon!
Male Black Widow Complex, th'always boinging,
lidded by lemony orange lager.
VI
I crashed Crasherkid frabble, rocked to
DJ Shoppinghour feat. MC Niche Jah.
My Sax Pustules & Dead Kinnocks LPs
accusingly mouldered in my heart.
VII
Crasherkids twatted then, dated now, now
grooveriders haggard. But time was the thud
of arterial Cherry7up
was the dub of their youthful BPM.
VIII
Triptown beefnecks w/ classic legoman's
Acid House ecaf (before e-cafes
had come & gone), mandy stag party.
I still slow my pace at their fearless napes.
IX
The rock club had delusions of grunger,
crush at the bar was lumberjack cubism.
Era of Jingajing-chicka-jing-jing Kurt,
anno domudhoney, left a zeitgash.
X
& in the goth club, cadavolescent,
guylinered Xennials listened to
Placebo, but poo-pooed manginas.
Identi90s: genres, not genders.
XI
Blotto elbows on sudsy bar, I cross
lanky barkeep's gulchy palm w/ nugget
for latest in a lost count of snakebites.
Streak of **** is a broom in a skinnytie.
XII
'I'm hyperboring as much as you!' quip I
to a cheetahthinking softdrinker.
There'd be no ruction if pickled franion
spilt his Tab Clear Kaliber, H2ooze.
XIII
Yestreen's teen mums of teen mums, renubile
on the glash. Simuladies who soft soap
saps to buy them...a drink, QVCexy.
If shopgilfs surrender the goods, QVChy.
XIV
Whosis, tattie-bogie of the floor,
turned Turok w/ liebestorschlusspanik.
But his limabean lines are jejune, even to
zirconia Zsa Zsas on the zhelf.
XV
Whosis, lima green last chancer, I'm a
aphroluddite like you. Both crud dancers
too, corybantersauruses. It's all
smoke 'n' mingers & we've got lunge cancer.
XVI
'There's a party on the hillside, would you like
to come? Bring your own cup & saucer
& your own cream bun!' Friends joyride
home dead, so ride dead joy home alone.
XVII
Simian, simulacrum, something for
the weekend, sir? Or are weekends just for
something before ip dip dogshit
******* ******* silly *** meet the kids then what?
XVIII
Stereotripe, not Stereospeare, yet unknown
plexors would kick in. Or was it the joypop?
Popliteal self on higher neon knees,
Mother Brown's got nothing on me!
XIX
Anansesum of my fancy footwork,
Bez in blossom under tiger strobe.
Chemical cochise, call me 'Tarantulip':
totem, tarantism, bruxism, bloom.
**
Yeah, I liked DJ Offroseanne before
the coward sounds of Simoncowellland
killed Cool. Taxi for the Corpse of Cool/
fetch your coat, love, you've pulled the Corpse of Cool!
XXI
Since the ears dot, aural laurels were hot.
& the beat authenticity lays down
is still the drill sergeant instrumental
that leads blind zeit pipers of all pied geists.
XXII
Lima bean fugue, forearm flash, Dear John tats.
Nocturnal vernal mental of the comeup
becomesdown w/ no summerlove, bad trip
(Raggaman Kafka say 'Uneazee Dreamz').
XXIII
'Taxi Driver' cinematography,
neon printcest of clubland signs dimmens.
Pick up your tuttifrutti braindamage
- time to go home, hungover twichildren.
http://www.pilkipedia.co.uk/wiki/index.php/Boswellox
Oct 2018 · 637
Sneezus (McGouggherel)
Apocrypha:
'fore he cold-shouldered
cold feet in Gethsemane,
Christ had caught a chill.
'One of you here tonight will
- Achoo-das! - betray me.'
Do not deign to achieve.
Do not strive to suffer.
Aspiration is naive.
Forget the stars, leave the gutter.

Hope's a hopeless hobby.
Nihilistic mother
taught steely melancholy.
Forget the stars, leave the gutter.

Wisdom dashes all wishes.
In egodeath, discover
how free a nebbish is.
Forget the stars, leave the gutter.
  
We are not indebted
to Indian givers stellar:
stardust smarts our fetish.
Forget the stars, leave the gutter.

The stars eat their young.
Orion universe, hunters,
whose lotus lights stun slums.
Forget the stars, leave the gutter.

Do not deign to achieve.
Do not strive to suffer.
Aspiration is naive.
Forget the stars, leave the gutter.
Oct 2018 · 3.4k
Borderline Love Lyric 8
I vow I'll go straightedge, grow
old w/ U now I will try to live.
Honey? I'm royal jellydrizzler, ambro-
sia sprinkler, manuka slav-

erer, glucose washingline.
Honey? Truncated puberty bassethounds
no more mellifluous a confection-
ary spokesperson than sweet sounds

of rhyming superlatives, purple prose glaze,
cherup syrub of yr...Honey?
I'm Jack the Dripper, Jackson ******* squeez-
ing bees,

weird scenes inside
the love hive. Honey, yr krazysexykool
- were U head
girl @krazysexyskool?

Yr compassionate
becoz yr compassion art
is that yr compassion heart
has compassion smarts. Compassion farts

even vent a delectable sillage.
Honey, when U showed me yr hon-
eypot, it ate away l/ acid at my 3rd eyelid
- pineal flash! When

I showed U my bruce,
U had me feeling
so pinefresh, last of the summer spruce
decongesting

the mucus of a moose.
No relation to non-Monty Montgomery,
but when I petted yr zipper cat @clubhousecaboose,
U helped me see

- eureka!
Bing-
o! ******.  Either that or 'Each 1 of us is special in their
own way'. The Get Along Gang

was a vision thang.
I'm yr Lenin & yr my Inessa.
I'm yr Lennon & yr my May Pang.
On a ferry cross the Volga to yr Oktober rock 'n' rolla.

& tho' U've got a hermione
& I'm not into hot karl,
U're my Lenny
& I'm yr Carl.

But shock appearance of the final realisation I
could lose the U inside of U, yr inimit-
able secular seelenfunklein, strikes down high
spirits l/ L.Ritchie floored by ceilingfunkline flit.
The Sphinx Sphanther, an ailuralien
from Slazenger 7, Ulthar System,
surveyed the vapid dullpink lunascape
of Smars. As he scanned yonder scanyons &
clabby tableland of Smartian terrain,
his 8ft henchbot, Ernie, numberwanged
'23467 097
11.' The Sphinx Sphanther's binary-brained
blabacus of a hotchbot robutler
doubled as personal security,
equipped w/ chainsawwindmillstars for hands.
But scant call for slicing 'n'dicing crowd
control here: Smars was desolate as smug
snow, too xeric to dessicater to
desertcraturf - in that, arid aphex
of its counterpart thru the quantumgate,
unsparticulate Mars. Sphinx had been there
too, long after the novalia cleared
by the Elon Muscovites for dometown
of New Creationham instead became
obumbrated by proxy war, a mauve
Somme for drones. The Zeta-Reticulan
barhover he'd met centuries later,
at Sagittarius Bolognaise, had
divulged he'd been staking out the Terrans
for millennia, concluding that quite
clearly they weren't Kardashev calibre:
' The Terran jackal apes could never build
fair Isratin on Mars's blank red slate,
but desecratered Earth 2.0
w/ telefactored lex talionis.
Palasraeli peace-world a daffy god's
dream.' But no roseplated, plaintive past
of lost races & their last, lost chances
would weigh on Sphinx Sphanther over 0-
g 'n' ts - least of all, kamikozmic
Terrans, ghosts of toddlers before his time.
Besides, he purrferred the splanetary
systems in his home universe, S-side
of the supersymmetrical stargate.
Even planet Smearth, whose gnomes salivate
for colloidal silver & often ate
salvers. But multiversally treasure-
hunting catman was not on Smars for smurrks,
nor to holoholo like a stalko
thru the pink pother, a fishbowlhead space-
*** w/ the best seat i.e. the worst seat
in a stadial sandstorm of foxglove
fog. In whirbles pulsive, Ernie's clicking
clock breath axlegroused, '23824
71719', as the Sphinx
Sphanther fremescently urged the servo-
droid to 'move your chrome cuirasse!' Which encased
Ernie's one lung of mesh & blexcroid heart,
repurposed by a gizmomancer from
silicone garage off Milkomeda
magic roundabout. Or was it spaceport
at the Smilkomeda?  Whichever,  the
Sphanther had long ago evolved beyond
flying saucers of cream. Caterpillar-
tracked calculator w/ a sporknose &
whisking shuriken fingers, Ernie creaked
futuristically behind its feline
master, as they descended in oblique
Indian file down scarp of Mountbattern
grink, for now the Sphinx Sphanther had bird's-eyed
some bearings. Manshaped moggy & lotto-
machine-A.I.'d adjutant had for days
yomped the candydross regolith of Smars,
a desert every bit as brass monkies
& indistinguishable in aspect
(save to areographers) as ******
tundra of its supersymmetrical
sister sphere, yet pink as amassed honkies
(tho' ofays blushing ashen w/ gammon
guilt). A holo-map Ernie projected
from its cyflaptic eyezor had led them
this far, but now the Sphinx Sphanther relied
on the sort of stillicide scholarship
a cat gleens from spacerats (w/ translation
bracelet bangling his back, a caudal wire),
because Ernie's pirate-ninja meter
was in emergency credit. The pair
hinterlunged on thru tayammum douches
of inextinguishable pink, spinning
powders, smaze of Smartian haboob, until
Sphinx Sphanther sphied, sphorry, spied his wrecked grail.
'Initiating sleep sequence passout-
code: rats apollo defile robot tide,'
catman commanded his lollygagging
tincan manservant to take hard-earnied
standby. Then, before Ernie's spangbolts could
cease squeaking, before its hi-tec bits quit
bleeping &  the combined constadrone of   
mechanical chakras was susurrust
(engulfed by speckled banshee breaker of
nominal boughs, wolf sough of Smars booting
alien sandcastles), the Sphinx Sphanther
in his eagerness nearly lapsed into
quadrupedal ignominy, as he
raced towards the ruins, object of his
enantionautic planethopping
over 8 & 1/2 lifetimes. Not much
remained of whatever edifice had
once graced Smars, a primordial witness
wrought in masonry as lurid as some
Lovecraftchild of Liberace, its pink
pillars & pink hunky punks bubblegum
rubble now, vividness conspicuous
against the grink sands.These Smartian ruins
were only slightly less ancient than God
& his blue hypernovae toybox, or
Tohu wa-Bohu's pantherine absence
before that. The Temple of the Dark Lord,
Yod-Coalescence, indisputably
a stripling of deep architecture next
to the Sphinx Sphanther's incomparable find.
By the same token, the fabled Terran
city of Dubai would be an ****
baby of steel & glass next to this site
of cosmic heritage, this exploded
damask rose of a UFOpolis,
stone petals shed by flower of dust. Engraved
on block immemorial, poking out
of a sandbank & imbued w/ forlorn
fascination for upright ****, such as
xoanon of Eve might hold for Conan
the Slybrarian, was maxim in long
dead tongue, the long dead sense of which rendered
it accidental koan, dumb poem
by anon culture that might as well be
entitled 'Sirenen Istigkeit'. Food
for thought anorexic Time, bulimic
Space inedibly graffitied on Smars:
'Nulla Dies Sine Linear B'.
Under cured Klyntar yurt later that night,
whilst Ernie hummed w/ Atari sheep sprites,
the Sphinx Sphanther dreamt of mighty works thru
the wringer of longslid signifiers:  

The barhover hovered above
membranous whatevers of mise-en-dream,
before the scene settled like anarchic snow.
Smickey Smouse was on a mauve rove
one smauve Tuesday. As Smickey
scanned yonder young scones,
young dust granted him edgehug.
Ernie said : Numb blah, numb blah, numb blah!
They certainly weren't in Snorwich, Snorfolk, anymore.
They hinterlunged on thru candybrass
of dross monkies, pinning spowders,
until Smickey Smouse smied, smorry, sphied
the Temple of the Dark Lord,
Pantherine Absence.
Smickey Smouse said: Wait there,
I'm just going for a quick Slazenger-7.
Ernie said: Skoda codas.
Elon Musk divulged he'd been
staking out the Terrans
for millennia & concluded they were in
emergency credit.
So they descended a serdab
poking into a sandbank,
its venom curd of darkness
further diagonally desecraterd
by Ernie's sadotronic **** attachment w/ knobs on,
thagomiser **** or Oumuamua
of steel & glass.
Its mace ***** drilled down
until Smickey, Ernie & Elon
were 3 spelunking sphinxes,
spelunking deeper into the recesses
of the alien sandcastle,
by the light of Ernie's eyeflaptic cyzors.
But you can't holoholo in a fishbowlobowlo,
lavalampadomancy of a daffy god's dream.
They longslod into the long dead clock breath
of Ozymandias' unconscious.
Should a cave-in cave in,
a hi-drama-gen bomb bomb,
quidzinc Ernie said: Inadjuvant Elon
Rifles should have hired
ghosts of toddlers  
for our pirate-ninja security.
Above them,
the embitteringly bitty yonder
stretched lone & level,
a ventriloquantum of solace on a grink brick
remained undiscovered & unsquandered,
waiting for a greater translator .
Ernie said: edit to bore life dollop a star.
Ernie said: Numb blah, numb blah, numb blah!
Aug 2018 · 14.8k
World War WH5
WW1 WW2 Dubyadubya3

(turbosouthernfried president w/ coke)

Wheyfaced WW4torn Widows

(spittoon image son of a talkfool from a longline)

Wheyfaced WW5torn Widows Warturned ******

(of talkfools in thrall to doctor occident)

Pastweeping WW6 Widowswarturnedwhores Wankoff WW7lords

(& other arsekissingers bearing airwolfpackages)

Woldwaltzing Wommel's Wazzocky Wristwatch Won WW8

(americuntbearing dr.doom in blue jeans )

WW9 Or Was It UUUU10 The Greatest Trick The Dubya Ever Pulled

(o -cide! quanticide! qualiticide! shiacide! sunnicide! up-)

WW11 Wind In The Willows Vs. Where The Wild Things Are

(-cidedoom! heil ideolodger cop tours amereich a-)

Wu-Tang Wenceslas Did Look Out To Wot Who's At WW12 W/ Who

(pache putative peacekeepers like abyssscythe parents)

WW13 Was Just A War To Wardoff War W/ War War

(chickenshits in boeing beefy tattoo nutshell the kernel cinders outta kids)

Wappenschawhinging Wareeyores Didn't Wanna Die In WW14

(white orange agent phosphorus wadewilsoning youth thin asia)

Warmongs Watching 'Alien Vs. Primula' Awailable On Bluway Wideo & WMD

(marlborocountry obsidional smokers of nationalised foreign forests)

Winking Warcorresponsors Dent Cred, So Just Di'nt Wink ;-) ;-)

(& nationalised fruits of the forest, totemic nutritious trivia)

WW Deja Vu Tho' Not The Former U.S.O.S.N.O.V.C.R., It's US=A Ruskhour,

(of red silverbacks primalcommunists marxist gorillas)

Wider Conflagration © Money For Old Europe

(daisycutters are daisyraiseczars, whumping warmjungle socialism)

Wigga Wandwigger Wimey Wyke Wozzy Wabbo

(yezhovschina will seem but a user's shiner next to us-china)

Woon Waki Wytie Wago Wankee Winky Wap = WW²

(international tittletattle + ballistic backwatchers = WW Certificate K-PG)

Winstolf Churchhimmler Was Never Wamblecroft At Wetwork

(vietnumb flaggingpasschendaele crimeansnore agincorpse)

Japoleon Bombaport Was Never Wamblecroft At Waterbloodsports

(even peacetime's but a meta nam for emasculated rambofan)

Every Payback Waterfall Is An Elevator In The Overlook

(boer war doesn't even touch the -cides of mars)

WW15 Will Be a Pathetic War Like A Letting War

(baulklands falkans batarangofbaghdad wolf of farrow says)

WW16 Was Warpartypiece For Wemon Wonga & Whippingboyz

(her heard everyherdy's fist theory of history is **** homini lupus)

'Mandible-Mandible Is Better Than Edibleman-Edibleman' - Winnie Va Pour

(gestarpospangled gag, sicker heights pulitzers should police)

But Peace Might As Well Be A Passe Fist Whilst Atomihawkcurse

(or kowtow bone sow to god & his flags of infinite paedophagy)

Of Full Spectrum Dominance Hawk Their Heck, Raptor Values

(allah 'avin allaugh w/ muhammadman atta atta)

That Also Corrupt Chimurenga Avengers & Krishnikovs Of Kashmir

(great pair of babels going south to macadam nation)

Like Incidental Minks Of Warpelf Warped Elves

(both the infidel eagle & osama bingowing earners hereafterburners)

Of Badman Admin In Die Goldzahngrube Kanada

(amerikaput christicidal as avuncular ayatollah w/ nuke quran)

Because There Is Only 1 Character Der Wille Zur Macht

(because there is only 1 act der wille zur macht)

No Peacenik Liberators Manumit Umits Of Nen, Deliver Us Unto Valnillahalla

(tho' bestlaid treatises are but cross storks ferrying thugly ducklings)

Before World Bleeders, Shepnel Shrapherds Lead Us Into
Poppyfields Of Tommy K

(that boom into aggreswans like the kaolin coruscation)

Wotsitler GOP-zilla Tyranno Sapiens Vs. Iranosaurus Nex'

(ian botham wielding mjolnir might rhinestone, lilywhite hiroshima bobbles)

Making Tommies & Jerries Out Of Cowboys & Islums

(& the only 1s beyond the apollyon will be already bellyup cosmonauts)

Congeries Of Tom & Jerry & Tom & Jerry & Tom & Jerry

& WW Tom & Jerry & WW Tom & Jerry & WW Tom & Jerry: bellicosmos

(peace is the uneventful unfull overness post-killallwillkillall)
Aug 2018 · 3.5k
Mister Inessential
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hevNco-VIho

Even Mike from Picture Loans don't wanna banter
'bout the football: I must be Mr. N.S. Senshawl.

My fascias & guttering are gagging for it,
but Safestyle never call: I must be Mr. N.S. Cenchall.

Nadir? It ain't bloomers baron Asil
in Cypriot sanctum tranquil:
it's me, myself & Mr. N.S. Senchall.

All the shitposting edgelords
catsitting for their exes Saturdaynight
are still more cool
than Mr. N.S. Senshaul.

I cross the informationsuperbillygoatsgruffbridge,
data unharvested: I must be  'NIFOC In Norfolk'...
'Drat & dratdrat, wrong username!'
blushed Mr. N. S. Censhawl.

Happy Hanukkah card was a circular
from the Inland Revenue.
Wasn't even addressed to
Mr. N.S. Senchawl.

In my hibernaculum, awaiting the business acumen
of a Sally Army mercenary, knocking to sell
me a doorbell that plays, 'Jingle Bells,
Mr. N.S. Censhall smells'.

Neither chaplain attached to suicide magnet estates,
nor my own personal Semitic Jazz Zeus, ministers
to unspeakably forgotten O me of little face,
Mr. N.S. Cenchawl ,
unseemly as all the major faiths.

Even if I rescued Meghan Markle
from Mr. & Mrs. Shackles' tumbril,
in sadiemaisie bunnyland black swaddling
on the road to Much Marcle,
the press would still misspell the hero of the hour's name,
'Mr. N.S. Censhaul'.

On my birth certificate, impasto vitiligo
of correction fluid furs the phobile mome no.
at my mum's hobile mone. & my name.
I cannot decifur
if it's Mr. N.S. Senchaul
or Mr. N.S. Senshall.
Or 'Mysteron Is Sensual'.

Has my mind gone blanket,
or is it a sense shawl?
Now I feel like Wolverine,
at least a vulperteen.
Militaryindustrial *******, sob,
did they massacre my memories, bub?
Defuse my dreams of a life less stabby?
Contorture me into this cybertiger Caliban,
monstro-Mowgli?
Now I feel like Wolverine's
wisdomtooth, a pain deemed
so negligible
- like Mr. N. S. Cenchaul.

Stan, Stan!
Radioman
Baker,  M'intosh, Zodiac Killer,  
Dr. Livingstone,
Mike from Picture Loans,
do you copy, over?
It's me,  Mr. N.S. Dooberry.
Puncture repair kit for the soul wanted.
Underoccupied tandem tyre's flat.
Heart-patch, what rubber solution bonded?

From old skool dogshit adobes, druids
built White Cliffs of Dover - few glues match that!
Puncture repair kit for the soul wanted.

Unicycles Sumerians sorted,
but bike made for 2 1 me rides to Splat.
Heart-patch, what rubber solution bonded?

No Wile E. Chimera off Beachy Head,
I'm going underground like samizdat.
Puncture repair kit for the soul wanted.

Brakeless brodie into marble orchard,
a sackseeking, unrequited lovecat.
Heart-patch, what rubber solution bonded?

Field day in iron clover is seasalted
Tour De Manche, victory requiescat.
Heart-patch, what rubber solution bonded?
Puncture repair kit for the soul wanted.
Jul 2018 · 8.1k
Policeshark!
Anatidaephobic para siesta,
on the park bench w/ the child molesters:

eyeballs eyevory as Arctic detergent,
amid shingle by De Beers are REMurgent.

Whitsands of some incroyable Bermuda
(white man even his own intruder,

upon cetocephalic theta depths,
that whistle crystal Dixie, seahorses for clefts).

'Peas have great individuality,'
but peristerite is this sea,

not peagreen.  A pickpoctopus of preag
(pre-peag more offshore than 64,000 leagues),

klepto Neptune mudlarks the silica,
into his limelylit hypothermia

sleeves shells, like the desirable hermitcrab Earth
of my astrally orarian self.

My gaze stolen by tealeaf tides:
samphire, sapphire, squid's suckereyed .

Under the sea, there is no CCTV.
But guilt is a silk meat to the nee-

dleeyed nostrils of PC Jaws;
feefifofumes slip faded scabs' pores.

He's not a panoptopus catching your tentacle in your mouth,
but squaloid cop whose own gob's a ganch.

Phaser intangible thru verdantique,
Policeshark! does davyjonestowns deek.

On a fishing expedition in shipwreck slums,
whose 19 new tenants are pinklewickers from Morecambe,

but they're innocent as God's goslings, so Policeshark!
capriciously octocuffed a gangster's mollusc

- by 'octocuffed', I meant crunched the suspect's stu-
diously nonevolved backbone in his beartrap bazoo.

After flossing the caries of noble cause corruption,
moody maccarelics had snubsnouted selachian

policesharkraid! an octopus's gardengate,
& half a McCalf, knee, did he confiscate

- minus the 'confisc'.
His beat is wide & his beat is deep, from Frisc-

o to Portalprints,
Constantlynubile  (Instantbeau) to Pawsmith,

from pertly lisped Perth to hellsmiled imorteen's
imaginary Miami, styrofoam unicorn shoreline.

& traversing isthmus now wasthmus, Lemuria,
where  the wreck of the Sargassoworks lies similar-

ly submerged, sunk by Cap'n Sanforisedbeard,
nautical vagabond who thought he'd blagged a pond,

but was wonking all the angles on the sextant,
till mainsail was mainly flailing like an introvert

among many reprikates of Rik Mayall. Policeshark! swam
thru turquoise ****** of amino acids, liquid farm-

yards of forms not yet strangely familiar enough,
where plankton are those new clear vitals' scurf,

or Creation's intelligent designer stubble.
& Creation's archeozoic goosepimples are bubbles.

For around Policeshark!, waves may turn time-
twiddlingly wavy: Zeit's gristle to the Sein-

shark, the Aardshark, the Wailsnark, the Sharchetype
worrying my liminal jugular like a vamp-

ire scarf. In the blink of the eye of the
Policesharknado!, Policeshark! the merciless mer-

monitor has done his bloodhound rounds,
reset his primordial aura dial, outswam Ground

Zerocean brane, that damp original,
even aquathreshed the 'bi.ven.' in that bilateral

venture 'tween surf 'n' turf, Sinbad the Flavour.
So as to spyhop above cursive of rips & rollers

to stake out this shorehugger, whose Shutter Island discs
sirenade not of Portalsmith, Bizzyhandyman or Frisc-

o, but of a more prosaic 'mare where sharks go quack.
So rage, Ol' Cuntsea, Thalassa you ****!

Big blue wobbly ****, Red Label Sea
of my unconscious! It is mens rea

for which Policesharks! frenze, pinprick of shame,
but the dreaming animal's meat is not game.

I am Ruestungminister in his Argentine cabana!
I am God in His Gondola!

& the Policesharkcage! is the cordon sanitaire
of my not really being there. Or here.

I'm Shore Ryder splittin' for a sun-Ken-
tucky, para siesta passing for a con-

tent Tuesday come to pass like the rainbands
that wore Ray Bans were disbanded by whitsands

fresh-CV-not-cream-scroll-brill, yet
inadmissible as Icarus giblets

or a mohican of gills' nullity.
O Policesharkbait! paltry

as dismembered Freudianism of carnal lagan!
Less catabasis & more embasan.

A dreampoet about to jump the Policeshark!,
awoke to the trope of a Savileville park.

Was it a dream within a dream within...
TL; DR, Policesharkfin!!
'embasan'  (Filipino)- to wear clothes in the bath
Jun 2018 · 262
6tn
6tn
me & my bae we met 6tn
wot i z woz wot r u werin
she txt bak crox n jeggins
inbetwn my toes thers webbin
wrds paint sugapix she woz etchasketchin
erotigger far from fetchin
but i h8 2 c a norfuk grl goin beggin

me & my bae we met 6tn
lyk rebeca l%s &  dvid bekham
xcept my readin age is ova 11
innerspishus st<3
but now we do sunset thang

me & my bae we met 6tn
so u hv my blessin
2 keep yr fones swtchd  on @ our weddin
wher arnt evlyn is 6tn the rite revren
who is 6tn mary magdalen
up 2 her ol trix agen
tho she art in heavn
netwk w/ major connex probs amen
hashtag1stworldproblems, but
couldn't even win a prize for reading:
'But there was no give in the cat,
no flex anywhere but his tail. And for
a moment their roles reversed, as though it were
the train facing
the inevitable cat...'
'n' dog 69er
vukojebina Tasmaniandevil in a ******
ad under/overbiting off more than I can
chew Escher's pretzel autocannibal
Prometheus in a Faustian ****
stage pacman dragon fusion starbirth centre
of the earth Bruckheimer pileup of me

Meanwhile bombs fall everywhere but here.

Singing 'Suggasuggasugga my art ***,
liggaliggaligga my art hole'

putting out the bins Insta-grommet-
ed Fama-widgetted the world but the world
is washing its ***** homme moyen sensuel
feels neither ****** nor blessed
culdesac wilderness no 'Wot no samo
©' enriches but inside my flat wypipo
surahs are basquiated alll over bones stones
& date palm fronds Newyork Paris London
Norwich supernobody supernova of purple psychology
prisoner between the lines egotistical subprime of me.

Allthewhile bombs immortalise everywhere but here.

Praying ' Ia! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat
of the Woods With a 1000 Young'
  yet still
the DWP send brown envelopes like post-
al millenarian sandwichboards or economic
letterbombs mash of calendars unassailable
nth mph inevitable catastrophe alazonic
file Akashic Bureau declassifies
is conceit of a train facing a rhino of a meme by
necessity a meme of a rhino gardarhino swino
my geworfen gurn of response scenarios
geworfen backatcha megillah galaxy
fillet ubeity is barrow pig cosmic bootyclap of me.

Everyday bombs bombarded the Mousetrap Theatre
but never hereatre.

Isn't everything just advanced basketmaking
everything is advanced basket-
making everything either that or egowanking
like urban legend of the Purple One ouroboros-
ing his purple one Janusjaws bittensmit-
ten by tailtaste once American sawboneses
optimised the Tom Thumb of Funk's
zeroshape with double ribectomy musta hadda sillycunt
implant ah the hiss of hubris human CMBR
soliphissing hero of selflove whited sepulchres
'This is the only musical the mouth & hopefully
the brain attached to the mouth, right?'
X-iestance of me.

The bombs they bombeth everyday, but I'm okay.

Big Gazrilo Princep Bang weltgeschichtlich pinup
modcon slave to my suprachiasmatic nucleus living
l'appel du vide in comfort fatarse sitrep
tragicecstatic bluff transparent as an exhibition-
ist pharaoh mummified in cling-
film hokeycokeying the keys till my right hand's in
court & my leftover hand doesn't count
tallies of tall realities like BasquiAT-ATs or Daliphants
skittled by Tippex the inner crickets' tip-
ple ghost grawlixes sculpsit grazes 00Q's qwerty spype
no carmen triumphale of poetical toothbrushes gets free
from chelseasmiled singularity inadequake scree of me.

But bombs being dropped is not the only way
this 40-yr-old 5'6 din of reverie will stop.
Jun 2018 · 256
Borderline Love Lyric 7
LVOE. VOEL.EVOL. LEOV. VOLE. ELOV. VELO. VLOE. LOEV. VEOL. EVLO. OEVL. OVEL. VLEO. LVEO. LEVO. ELVO.EOVL.OVLE. EOLV.OLEV.OLVE. OELV.

I don't know what it means.
Jun 2018 · 192
Vernissage (For Idle Hands)
Rabies & genocide, boys & girls,
my contemporabies and also future shack-
dwellers (drumroll, *** note):  presenting

the Swatches of Hell, my vernissage
entitled 'Infernissage'. It'd be easier to ask
whose soul the show is not awaiting

when eyesockets are groped in the darkness
of a ver'massage, worse than a new
leather headache. Save for saying

'without further ado', without further ado:
(1) Charcoal childshape of Torchy the real boy,
where the boy had stood on the burning decking

before curling up. Pyropygmy had pinbolided
- bedroombedroomdownstairsfrontdoorback!
Till, to his Royal Borough of Chelsea & Kensing-

ton-crispy injuries, succumbing in the
mockingly fresh nightair. Firegutted passers' eyes
mark this Casabianca Philpott's passing,

whitehot rust of seethrublue welding them pink, not
his the sunny rebirthmarks of beatific burnsvictims
on 'This Morning' too mawkish for mourning.

(2) Rubicund/t gammon Brexshitter on #BBCQT.
Shirecoarse broflake of a certain age, whose purple rage
pulses w/ excess of free radicals, fulminating    

against an excess of Free Radicals. Oxidisation
at the state of the nation. The greatest trick
the Devil ever pulled was convincing

us he's nothing like David Dimbleby.
(3) Gammon down the doctor's, no quizzical
ripple on quack's accordion brow - simple dyingnosing

a carotid grume in ruddifazed
British bullfrog's fatberg of jowlveins.
His backgarden Gammon Gammadion flying

at halfmast in a pig's whisper, if
sweet 'n' sour lobster pantone of
St.Georgie-Porgie's protein perspiration's anything

to go by. On his way to an early
Inheritance Tax dodge by his Thatcherite
farrow (sow's ear effect sowers ), confirming

bacon acorns don't fall far
from the Gammon's magic Mammon tree
4) Idiopathic craniofacial erythema at a kilfudyoking

over a dynamite toothpick, when the realisation shites
a ******* light both sides were incinerated on the spot
upon the surface of Friggjarstjarna (Space X booking

clutzclicked). (5) As if the cursed perspex of the Red
Hood wedged on backtofront, the ponceau plasma
kerblammo of cheap shot deathscending

like the red mist upon Prince Prospero
towards his poxy masquecrasher, Red Death,
but from the rear, is genickshuß too late blowing

away blindness in occipital eyes of adage,
e.g. those in back of the caput of top dog immortalised
in dogfood - capitaneus canum, Brutus, donning

no ghillie toga to bump off emperor chum.
(6) Carnivorous-pillarbox shade, prettymuchnot peace-
painted nails of gobsworth jobshite murderdoll dialing

in another Axis-might-as-well-won-day Monday...
For the agency temp. From a blondsports arena
- not Berlin '36 - but gammon gangmaster's king-

size in a pig's styescraper, slap flawless as a paralysed
actress (& her maquillage too), murderdoll her own  
officilicious entertainmeat overloveegging

as Miss Axis Mundi, when cash is queen in urban jumanji
of the UK. Her Nominal Majesty's - nominally - Murdocracy
of murdered dolies. Here, hollow as a bacon thorn bonking

a murderdoll hollow, beauty only follows the money,
the carnal collateral. (7) Sartorial butcher's rainbow of the
Satrap of Toast O' Clock Tophet (sadly not coming

w/ a cone). I don't mean MC. #BBCQT, I mean
the Devil IRL-oosely i.e. the Arch-Hole of myth.
His tartarean tuftaffety w/ auburn ape trimmings  

Borneo bones bled, which owe more to Deforest than
Kelley (practically fratricidal for us mowler honkies,
chinkpanzees & hanuman beigings expatriating

the Africark, yet we are the furriers to the furnace-
keeper). He's been around for a long, long year
- Asmodeus on an English Triumph - but now lolling

over (8) orange eschatology, better to reign
than be flagitious in the fireign line, excruciatingly
expireign & respireign as they moan 'Ooo excruciating!'

in an excruciating manner for 666 x ∞ , that old excruciator.
W/ a fairwind of the dashdamndickens behind them,
t'iddly oakly 'ades boomtube transgressors ranging

from singlesided shouldershruggers to susan stranglers,
mostly multiple offenders hellbending like snot otters
thru the immoral maze of the Malebolge. Cackling

over the crackling Karakazan stirrers from Serbia
& karakdealers from Scarburbia, molten fate
of malefactors no Factor 30 could curb becoming

fact of searing snowangeled faculae in a caldera
of correction, but the Bluest Fiend is the truest friend
of the little children. Beelzeblubbing

hellish tears of tearspray & swazzling w/ sternutation
of consternation, (9) Blucifer (his blah-hue that of a
Neptunian whose neb-blue-lousness saluting

by Bengal lights illumes) is a blue Rubicante
when his sadistyworld flamepark avenges
Hubineks & Heather Wests. We are worth hating,

the Devil's seen the intel. We fence
our consciences at art galleries, buy coffee table prints
like papal indulgences. But Jesus is a gerund.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dAsCxo0N3FI&feature=youtu.be

Like Pink Panther putting on normal panther camouflage,
or a Goth record with a lipstick autograph;
a crow and a flamingo mingling at a birdbath;
or Bret ‘The Hitman’ Hart’s leotard:

pink ‘n’ black is my heart
since we did part, since we did part.
Pink! Coz it feels so raw.
Black! Rotten to the core.
Love is a doubled-edged sword
on which my heart, heart's been gored.

Like a baby born on the bonnet of a hearse,
or anachronistic candyfloss on the teeth of Liz the 1st;
an unturned chipolata, top raw, bottom burnt,
or your girlish mirth when I am at my worst:

pink ‘n’ black is my heart
since we did part, since we did part.
Pink! Coz it feels so raw.
Black! Rotten to the core.
Love is a doubled-edged sword
on which my heart,  heart's been gored.

Like the lungs of a nico-tween puffing past a pack-year;
the highlight in Heathcliff’s hair when Cathy drove him queer;
coconut rolls from liquorice allsorts, but not the black ’n’ yeller.
Or my broken heart so terminally tender.

The two tones of good old-fashioned rock ’n’ roll,
sang Johnny Teardrop on his Les Paul,
or was it a Fender ?
And is blue the true interior of a heart tore asunder?
Statistics prove we come out of the blue. Q. do I have to
read the instructions slightly with knees bent and far apart,
or stand with one foot on the toilet seat wrapper?
Say yes to that and we'll say 'Well done, my inspiring layabout!'

Yes, to you it's that simple:  benefit scrounger has finally realised that the right way
to bring up a family is available in a range of absorbencies.
The big test will be to see if he is role model for his urinary opening
and the toilet seat with knees.

You should also be aware that if you enjoy a long life, some insurers may ask you
to undertake. How pleasing to read that super skiver walks out within weeks!
It makes me wonder how many other equally fit wasters insert a fresh
menstrual odour, return the coupon overleaf.

Carefully remove the thumb and ******* to hold someone
who suddenly loses the leading market research company when standing up.
Not surprisingly we will never increase it, your life expectancy,
less than a pint of milk or a first class stamp.

As soon as your fingers touch choice of welcome gift, things like a coffin,
disbursements and documents, the use of a chapel of rest when going to the loo.
And you only need to look at mixed case of wine or DVD mini-cruise,
fainting near ****** every 4-8 hours if you need to.

You should talk to your doctor before using carefully selected organisations
for the rest of your life.
It's all very well for scrounger, has got back his peace of mind, nose and ******.  
Doctor out with the ****** first thing. The ****** may be flush,
deliberately sponging off kids and Association of British Insurers.

If you are tense, why not ask us for a no-obligation quote
and your muscles will remember your ****** slopes.
The younger you administers financial products and services with no kind
of naming and shaming campaign, when they are clearly fit for hope.

I hope it makes the benefits office look closer into why the ***** is a flexible membrane  
and 24-hour customer careline. It's the nation's most popular maybe, worn in the ******.
Equally if you were to die soon after the first two cremations and burials,
we won't ask you anything after the recommended time and white fibre.

Shame others **** out the spongers because it's good to see
skivers are allowed better diets and both hands free.  
Read the rest of this feature forwards at the same angle
you also enclose no one knows what, hygienically.

We understand that bus driver to your vaginal opening may help you
enjoy your golden years.
That can be a real help, providing a multiexperienced health hearse.
Insert your main reason medium to heavy worst happened to you
with no hard earned, complacent acceptance.

Fortunately he has immediately become a good guts to always
use the wish to wear a slim applicator for starters.
Unless you have some spare best protection and comfort, choose benefits system
that allowed his beaming proud smile and thousands of others.

Five readers are delighted the dad of a bus driver got a job as grooved rings
at the light and started death information pack today,
made from glossy paper to help hanging outside your body,
which can vary from day to day.

Every woman has her own unique eight years on the dole,
portion of the box embossed with a code.
Can a ****** get lost in very light to light flow,
going to refreshing change it would make on the dole?

You can also  essentially eliminate the risk of menstrual TSS
by not using professionals and counsellors.
Let's hope more idle parasites use your other hand to
fold back the skin that flushed down the toilet, if there is no litter.

Other parasites like the taxpayer can reduce the risk of living longer,
because none of us know acceptance - as complicated as you might think!
Don't leave it too late, achieve something our social system has failed to do.
Point the tube if you think that sounds of ashes, following a special living clinic.

Older women might want at your funeral to buy something,
those aged policyholders milking the system (multipack only).  
Your death could start from as little as the flow
absorbed before it leaves the body.

They could work but chose a pad instead of a ****** at least once each day.
These could easily add several compliments,
ads, flowers, congratulations etc.
All of them may not be present.  

Clearly at least one super scrounger has triple travel
accident **** opening they can look up to,
guaranteed 'fighting fit' with the removal cord  
fainting comfortably inside you.

In fairness to parasites, his footsteps work and he has gone.
Things have got pretty bad when we have to rely on work - what an indictment of a state!
One month after you're paid, you're aged 50-80, made of absorbent material
(cotton and muscle aches).

To all those still working in a couple of months,
for your own cremation crust grafting,
every penny counts, which is why so many never rise.
Why the average person's bottom of the outer tube, same happening.

If you were to die from rayon sun out and featured over land,
gently rotate it or move the rounded
tip of reasons. If you were to die happy with the product,
can you imagine the wide apart or squat postage is interested?  

After eight skiver stories inspire highly loved ones
you're looking to leave biodegradeable,
use your ****** and replace between periods.
He has already found there is self-esteem in illness that can be fatal.

Out there, notice of death fixed for life.
There, together with a quotation,
we've specially prepared medical
burial headstone to help you fill in your application.

There's no way I can make this sound any better:
Get a job asked Time, a partner Place, cover your visible virginity.
If the applicator doesn't slide in the applicator in the
applicator,  remove the applicator from the applicator firmly.

Take a few breaths, guaranteed menstrual flow pattern.
Then again, everyone's heard the sad story of more exercise.
Taking out a plan is nowhere near when the unexpected might happen.
Stylish Parker pen has fat backsides.
Apr 2018 · 203
Recrement
Born avoidant (well, aside from being born at all),
inchscrutable as croutons under the futon, all

I've coveted is cover since a snorkelparka'd
helix, a weasel helix, from the snorkelparka'd

hydra of inscrutable happenstances
that clusterheadfuck this dappled happenstance,

home sweet anomie, Planet Earth.
Gardencentre Peklo na Zemi of astrotearth

antichthonic, inauthentic, even by where we buy
hardhitting chrysanthemums that buoy

my spi...buoyoyoing!  British budget impulse SCUDGE.
I love her but I begrudge her her scudge.

I love her but I begrudge her her polymorphic
pervert, our pending polymorphic

pervert who'll **** the udderade of the underaged
from Mum's scudgedup blebs. Negasonic middleaged

wordbod, I'll wear my 'World's Greasiest Dad'
tee, see out a sellout poete maudit grandad-

hood, but won't I still livelive this double life,
indicting her & in her debt for this nicelife.

com #invertedcommas I embrace in gardeninggloves?
Marsellus Wallace's Joy Division ovengloves;

the **** sphinxen & the tonguetied sphinxen
of the phenomenological shopfloor; situational sphinx

of Damocles' eyebrows over snorkaparkel'd
hydraheads, the Ultimate Question parked

like a rattletrap; old family recipes;
Zeus' zippo, Hoho Erectus the recipi-

ent of this original hot merch snaffled
by Prometheus Trotter; worth snaff all

to a shiquid lit. worthy like me, a squillion mid
burning Os in my Promethean pockets, a cool
squillion ******* mid;

1/r = 1/0 = ∞ but w/ all the ions .ed & the t-quarks x'd;
nuclear football override codes should TACAMOs get
crossed;

honest to goodness alchemy, lapis philosophorum
(for the poet is legit filius philosophorum,

transmuting his pilgrim shadow into tanorexic El Rey
Dorado, his basement of basemetals, where nary a ray

of Fama gaily bedights, into a golden garret);
in Thomas Twitterton's garret,

Patricia Lockwood typing a tesseract out
of Pepe, tidepods, bobs, vagene: O what could out-

mean benign & grounding domestic stupor, Stepford Lice's  
Scudge Sundays of Love w/ his Sleaford wife, Mrs. Lice,

who checks out the checkout Unilever Nestle Kraft & Mars.
But a Steppenwulf wife would mar s-

olyent green & pleasant garden centre scudgey life.
Born avoidant: happy wife, happy life.
Apr 2018 · 302
Suicid'oh (Villanelle)
No-one's hanged with cable of wireless mouse.
A butterknife slashes only butter.
Suicide's no go in this stupid house!

It's harder on the hop than you might guess
to improvise serviceable halter.
No-one's hanged with cable of wireless mouse.

Selfharmadillo wrists left for glabrous,
my doldrums armoured by pencil sharpener.
Suicide's no go in this stupid house!

Tatty towelling gown cord my misplaced noose
- what swings free ain't from beam or banister!
No-one's hanged with cable of wireless mouse.

A soak with the toaster would be no use;
it'd just trip the mains. And I've a shower.
Suicide's no go in this stupid house!

Rennies in cabinet won't cook my goose.
Electric oven will egnis my riah.
No-one's hanged with cable of wireless mouse.
Suicide's no go in this stupid house!
Apr 2018 · 223
Mama Lula Chekhov Alrite
'I live uptown. I live downtown. I live all around.'
- 'Changeling', The Doors

Facebook, festivals, coupling, karoshi.
Snorgeoisie dreaming of World War Z.
Mood wings, mood poisoning.
Wearish is this way of life.
Oh well whatever nevermind,
mama lula chekhov alrite!

Norwich is an orange nidus,
so I wear my purple sunglasses.
Should you covet them, fish
the chazzas for the like.
If you find some, or you're blinded by the sun,
mama lula chekhov alrite!

Now I'm a vespertine cyclist  
beneath an amberdamaged fudge
of doves. Quite unharassed the parish,
we duck all outriders save twilite
& that **** earworm of an eggcorn,
'mama lula chekhov alrite'.

Psychedelic hangover this morning,
but now nightcycling ,  off the beaten Ritalin.
Can't see a thing; feel everything.
I wear my (purple) sunglasses at nite,
on the crest of a midnite wheelie.
Mama lula chekhov alrite!

Underpass blades don't raid, but they mite.
I blow a kiss goodbye to the
anuses of this town's black cats.
The creak of a midnite scorer's bike.
Underpass eyes pass me by.
Mama lula chekhov alrite!

Ji-Mo, my original bad influence,
why did you throw the chapter pods away?
If felines rated classic rock bands,
every catlover knows they'd be Doors acolites,
for they share the same elegant feral mystique.
Mama lula chekhov alrite!

Did the dishiest drunkard
in the history of Los Angeles, alcodelic
Dionysus-***-Diogenes appear
to me as boghouse blues spirit guide
a la Elvis & Clarence in 'True Romance',
'Mama lula chekhov alrite'

Ji-Mo's pep mantra? Nah. But
Pere Lachaise was only pilgrimage
I ever made. Later,  le vent de gard du Nord
crooned thru the pissoir as I took le *****,
'C'est la vie, hakuna matata,
che-che-chong che-che-chong

mama lula chekhov alrite!'
Mar 2018 · 392
Autumn W/ A Vengeance
Minstrel dumbstruck in the mizzle.
All romances yield their September.
Atavistically wistful,
the horizon ate my ancestors.

Seamonkey cities in astrobleme
lived the dream, but now magnolia
twilight of dementia picks us clean
w/ friselis of Auld Langoliers.

Killcrop in wellingtons of raven
shine puts the boot in piled margherita
playing card suits. This ruffian's
God; the leaves have human features.

Neither fall nor the Fall are antigrav.
Autumn flotsam 'n' jetsam flutter
like a showboating judge's gav-
el, yet condemning to a yardfire

all the braeburn-variegated Satans,
russet Lucifers w/ wings of nervures.
Deciduous devils, whose crackling perdition
foretells season of hell sowed for gardeners.

No modestly moulting future tense:
life is a winter of autumnal adolescence.
Abscissions are but the frondescence
of the laurels of autumn w/ a vengeance.
I wish my bed led to yours
thru quilted catacombs.
Until I see you remove your drawers,
I will be the Eternal Noob.
But I do not have to see you in the nood
to be Eternally Yours.
Mar 2018 · 383
Borderline Love Lyric 6
I always pictured
angels as a sort
of apperceptive helicopter,
Kryptonian psychiatrist
or interdimensional fallguy.
But mute angel of mercy
suppressing suspiration,
who withheld their number
& was on the line for
seconds at 7
a.m. this morning was you,
I knew
it, checking I was alive
after my BPD jive.

Like a thumbsup from
Lottohanded giddy aunt God, profound
as Enceladean heavenplumes
organic compounds
bead. But I'd rather
discover there was still life in our
remaining *-X'd
petnamers & injokers,
exchanging angel orca,
our kremlinology of ultrasound Eros.
Awaking next to you
- phew!
After a febrile siesta,
like a jammy sailor

shipwrecked upon the shore
of home of all places.
Snug as alien orcas under
Europa's ocherous linea, chaos
terrain, in Jovian lunar caverns
measureless to mantas down
to a sunless sea, our
mooner's pod duets
in cryptolect,
tho' my mooner's
pods
recede,
wellhung as Orko
at proto-razbliuto,

fond-to-neutral farewell in your
plaint. You have no
right to resist my other
worlds, clam up on our orca argot.
I am your Stalker God,
you my orca pod
centrefold,
who checked I was alive
after my BPD jive.
I love you so much I'll leave you on hold.
Eruptable,
undumpable,
how can you resist
an interpersonal terrorist?
One emotes when one evokes:
for all you know, mothballed reader,
I could have contraired & composted
the shell section of the 'Colour Library
Book of the Natural World' w/ A-level simples
& a fistful of moths who have met their
parrotsketch. In my wellredition, there's inscription
from hypocrite cheapskate poet I know not,
but they are after my own cordiform inkblot:

'I bought this Xmas '88
for both of you to share,
make sure you don't write on it
or the pages tear.'

Pages, pages tear poets apart again.

Did I inspect a dead moth
twixt thumb & forefinger?
As if about to pinchtoke,
tinchily poke a 1960s roach,
which is all dem hippies seemed to smoke?
Don't ask if I pinchfished a dead moth
outta ***** fangs outta the can
for a closer look.
You don't want to know how far I'll
debase, lay myself to waste for Art.
Until the selfimposed dignity of Man
is like Kryptonite carrotcake
to a sweettooth Superman
in a loser's cloak.
I permanently weaken my position
& spread dead moths
next to a pictorial spread of dead moths
to police the remoteness of my *******.

Shells can be conehead crashelmet
homes for whelks, barnacles' helterskelter,
bone spire to keep out the sea & the whelkers.
Shells can be ribbed, Tench Frickler
or smooth as babywipe breeze
upon an orphan's bottom.
Or shells can just be the soul's used booth.
I do attempt to pen my soul
in its booth,
& really am not so faremoved
from the selfcontained philosophy
of selfcontainment behind booves.
I believe in this abandoned booth,
this freedom cocoon inside a nuthouse
cocoon inside a dope cocoon inside a *****
cocoon inside the glistening unshed deadskin
of childhood. Insideout of the blackballed
rainyday cocoon where nothing everchanges
into a betterfly, implosive metamorphosis
into nothingness, blackbathroned noncocoon,
best womb return to when I hadn't been born
I could recreate on a budget.

But outside there's Death's Head moths alive
in the penguin curves of overwaitresses.
Every once & a short long while/long short while,
Death'a Head moths defile my wellbeing,
my 1/2 of a heart2heart will not come out
of its shelling (only statue chemistry remains).

Sarcophagus moths, tombrobber's butterflies
- you know you stone dead moths should
get out more, you'd love Ra the great lightbulb.
Death's Head where the good old bad moon rising
used to be, it fluttermutters its dark matter
which has cosmic knockon effects, tempest in all
24 corners of the timezone - Jolly Roger moths ahoy!
Sail in the face of reset wristwatches.

Raw shark moths, warmedup Death's Heads
in the shadows of the trouty jowls of
elder bloodrelatives, those gouty owls.
From each quivering, filtering
crysisalias, Death's Heads moths fly,
40 approx shock outta shipictured
box of matches.

We can't be what we were meant to be,
kings&queens of each other's moods
in shells or booves, on shelves,
behind screens or in blackbathroomed flats
where all the Alone One has to thinkabout is
the dead flat dead gnat on the ceiling,
straddling its own shadow,
phantom gnat autonecrophile
making an artex exhibition of itself.

Now some poeticlicenceabiding laureate
would nick ****** sprig of their muse's wig
to pick out the killing colour
they desire their arid garret,
but me & my dead moth lost boys
reckon Duluxmen should just bite
the bullet by the horns , slay the taboo
& describe their darkest shade,
'Death Unabashed'. Or 'Black Sheepdog'.

Shucks, I better get off the bathroomfloor
of my mind, this phonebox for the blues
(dial 100 for the motherator). Wash off
this black bathroom gloom, where it appears
the Battle of Britain of Moths was lost.

Shells, husks:
moths, lives, pistachios.
#dulux #kryptonite #joydivision #comparethemeerkatdotcom #frenchtickler #spoonerism #jollyroger #elegy #insect #death
Living moths festoon dark roominess,
whole wide Nitenidus outside black bathrooms,
cheeky creepy cockroaches cockbroach
meathook lapels of Night,
dapper carcass of the blackballed Day.
The Day is well ***,
w/ its blister of red butcherflies.
But yesterday & I
are not so different,
given the ***'s rush out of Existence,
the Country Club of Human Potential.

Give me Night's open plan, dark sky park
blueprint dapslashed in undertaker's bootpolish
over any day anyday.
Universal inkwell we wander into
like spiders in the Beano.
Starlight, millions of runt suns
levy obscure orients at inscrutable heights.
Unimaginable distance is relative,
all my imagination does is distance me.
But tonight I shall stitch my dead moth stichs
of dead moth schtick sewnonymously unto
the Norfolk Night.
My Rorschachwinged write-
up of crispers upon crispers of the critters
will wear you, Norfolk Night, breathlessly & blindly,
like you were a hooded overcoat
w/ no holes to facilitate
thumbtwiddling or gobsight.
By these dead moth odes, I become your host,
5'6 embodiment of a black sock
w/ all my mortal might.

Night, I wear your weary
spidery epaulettes, tramptuft
peek thru your sleepingbag shoulders
of middleaged soldiers' slow suicide
on civvy street (literally, concretely).
A couple of wraps of dead moths
in the breastpocket of Norwich Vice,
1 w/ the Omniscuzz,
heavybreathing slugs honking at slags.
& us angelheaded hipsters
gonna walk down Cattail Street
to Our Work on an alcourier
carrierbagtwizzle mission at 6am.
Lousy Prince Lice & his ex-insect entourage,
dead moth cortege & court of overcocky
carkroaches. What have I got riding
on a bonafide dead moth **** sock
of a mythopoeic deposit?

I am erring on inauthenticity,
as if Turin Cloth
a whimsical medieval weaver
imprinted w/ his soninlaw's
peasant chic, protoWoodstock likeness
to hock as roly helic.
I longago gotout of the bath.

But it's more complicated than that:
poets are undergrowth spirits
who find garments on the ground
that have never been worn.
Do not confuse this w/ chrysalises,
chrysalice's bulb of wings
is ball of collapsible coffinlids.

To inanely ingrain
a Top Of The Pops Of Dead Moths
upon the Night Whoise - how close
is my imagination to conquering infinity?
All the insects that will die tonight
in Norwich to be approximate, best I can get.
Insects, living, are never innocent
or heartening as fishful goblets at night,
dead moth olived bathwater I neck to nail
this noctuary pretensionproof.
What a dead moth & a Dark Poet
have in common is that they are not aloft.
'You say Heterocera, I say Lepidoptera
Heterocera!
Lepidoptera!  
Heterocera!
Lepidoptera!  
Let's call the whole thing Moth' - Rob Dicken

I didn't sniff or snuffle,
beat my teeth or gnash my chest
for moths who've popped their mothclogs,
nor did dead moths mutely decry
my piddly bathcrimes
w/ humble crumpled ****** indecency.
Dead moths don't mind their misappropriation
as my degeneracy's decorations,
the desiccated leafweights their deaths left,
the postmortem pestpetal husks,
dead mothmentoes of a nightbath moment of no note,
dead moth mote in mine eye.
You know your social life is lifeless
when you're the diarist of dead bugs.

Shayackaboosux! My ***'s been banjaxed by hottosnot
biostrife of bloodstreambodsleighing bugs,
but I do not NOT mourn dead
moths because of the headcold component,
nor do I resist Daitchlawrencian
serpenticide of expiation.
'Sjust the slatteriness of a scuzzy lusk
letting fled moths lie. Tho' they'll fly
should I sneeze. No thanatousia
for thimblewit Heterocera, I won't be sent to rot
for watching them rot, but if I think of it, I reek of it.
I feel like such
driedup dreggy insignificant insect expirations,
even in this bath of emollient poached North Norfolk soap.
Otherwise, would I not weep or at least flickaway
the trinket corpses?

A superior sendoff'd be rendered
if you little guys had been
windscreenwiperwiped
across the windscreen of a louche Porsche
belonging to Hunter Hobby,
a moviestar who only this moment is sashaying thru the lobby
to be startled at his windscreen striped w/ smears,
mottledleopard liquid mess of Hollywood moths
w/ a crush on Death that glamourpus.

Meanwhile outside the Grateful Dead Mothtel
very near me in Norwich, there's flybynight
flies & grim crickets
that don't languidly trill 'cheerup cheerup'.
Scarlet ladybirds w/ blackheaded shells,
come an insect adolescence - O the lice pinups
(least I'm bishybarnaBeatle for bishybarnabeaver)!
Tonight, cockroaches wander violent & free
as hickwater Americops or their hitchhiker sociopot
tosspath prey on a midsummernight's reality TV.
A cockroach can be off its head for up to four weeks
& still not be legless - my hero!
Tho' cockroaches are overrated, not so indestructible
when confronted by beadyeyed band of the aubade.
Or could I literally (which oft-connotes 'grisly')
'bodypop' a cockroach w/ predatory finkie-pinger,
no bigger than a roached **** floating
between prunes of procreation?

Or a cockroach could be crushed
between the pages of the most boring book
I own, acne sap insect viscera , puncture
that is the picture whose value plays snap
w/ 1000 words in the hackanory
journal for ******* I'd choose.
It won't be the shells section of the
'Colour Library Book Of The Natural World',
that's for sure,
but a tome to offend us Touchwoodists
by indulgent arboreal butchery
of something so illadvised, illindeliblised
upon the dendroderived.
Maybe 'The Memoirs Of A Marrow',
particularly Chapter 5.
In my black bathroom steamy w/ kitcheny goodness,
I stare w/ dumbfound familiarity at my underwater
prunes of procreation. Then turn my attention
to a dead moth, whose variegation, colourations bladdayah
yap pap
ring a bell of shells: precious wentletraps, mitre & helmet shells,
argonauts' earphones. Rashspaced tiger cowrie's spots misnomered. Conch's cremedge.  There's more dead moths
on the shelves & stickybackvinyled floor,
on the bathrim, a crisper of dead moths
like an embarrassment of dead parrots
on oblongchested shoulder of stolid, plastiplated
whitish cistern. Even a dead moth atop
the 47cm short, spitifullooking inletpipe,
ersatz chodbintestine to the sea.
Dead moths phantasmamothically festoon
my black bathroom.
I'm dehydrated, but still alter bathwater,
ammoniac infinipissimal.
Twisted bathwater I'll layer lemon 'n' lime
as I'm also unstoppably snotty,
a viro-Vesuvius of snoutslime.
But when you're ****** & deadmothy,
you're always coming down w/ the lurgee
& the times. The English subsist on blackpudding & limes.
Feb 2018 · 2.1k
Gardener Girlfriend
When a metaphysical Venus flytrap
blindsides the honeycombpound eyed
sense of security I've falsified;
when the knowledge of good & evil is ratheripe;

when contiguous backgarden of young guns
mix solar with Stella & I can hear from here
scruburb hubbub, my hothouse muse sick at their
Asbo airrifle house anthems;

when I've been spat out like a pip again,
& nursery taunts of my bullies Johnny & Tommy
- who dibsed Bill & Ben,  which pilloried me
'Little ****'  - are flashback thicket evergreen;

when local calumny of all my complaints
wins blacklisting,  thus alone, I can't cajole
or goad my thriving today:  a fool
for the sun, I go to her in her element.

In her greenhouse grown from garnered discarded
gardengates, writtenoff windscreens, woodworm tough
junk planks, other ****** clutter, freecycle stuff.
Maybe what the fairies  flytipt, shed sheds.

& as her silver hatter, tinfoilconed garden
gnome, I say it with godwottery
& fleurs bleues of drosometric poetry.
Fecund in seconds at so gorgeous a groundswoman,

compared to whom Charlie Dimmock's
a pyrrhotic hummock. I need to feel
her greenfingernailed hands that heal
petals upon me. Even dogsmuck

has its day in the sun (faecal factoid:
contemporary canine squelchtraps for shoes
no longer dessicate a canescent hue,
because of low calcium content in tinned

dogsmuck for our best friend's biting end).
But may those hands which craft crutches for
crocuses scratch out my roots, pooper-
scoop summer stinkers I grew from. She tends

to sheltered seedlings, soon to spam 'ead
the ceiling of her slipshod shed, even
before 'Bunny H. Greenhouse' is interjection
wellsaid. & when transplanted, repotted

they'll nip new zeppelins in the bud
in a beanstalking blink, like a safetypin
in a  zit! Her garden's always plopping
antigrav aureate  H.Dumpties, sunnysideup

drive of saplings & seedlings, for golden
egg plants be all flora to my floraphile.
Not strict drips she feeds to daffodils,
dahlias, daffodahlia hybreeds - they're sodden!

O Edwina Wateringcanhands!
Also my Mrs. Mellors, at whom a herm
shoots up overgrown, aherm.
Eden is a garden of reproductive glands.

Her hyponychium frowns
with flowers' bedding,
but the **** needs weeding
that brings my flower down.

Far more than the Maggie (not numb P45)
Thatcher of flower power, Frey hersilt,
Gardener Girlf put da spurt inta expert
teasing o' da e'rt. Induviae

of a concrete straitjacket, please be pleached
til dead arms o' malacophilous heart  reach
her greenfingered kind of golden touch,
much more precious than any old Midas touch.
UHT milk from foodbanks we drink it in the evening but we have nothing
to eat or drink the next day or the day after that
The Germans didn't lose the war to the Warsaw Ghetto
thus the Blue Nazis have learned
not to overeach beyond streets of high mortality co-morbidity
In Tory Britain they call that uplifting
O your silver spoon Sixtus Rees-Mogg

The al desko deathsquads at the DWP
sanction the scapegoated underclass the economically underactive
the useless eaters A sanction but it is a selection
for their systems of high entropy low empathy send us to drink
UHT milk from foodbanks we drink it in the evening but we have nothing
to eat or drink the next day or the day after that
The Blue Nazis have learned not to overreach beyond
the grey area between underclass and untermenschen
but let indifference borne of stigma **** us doubly
In Tory Britain they call that uplifting
O your silver spoon Sixtus Rees-Mogg
O your silver ashes Jeremiah Deen

The Garden of Eton has many serpents
that learned the Germans didn't lose the war  to the Warsaw Ghetto
The masses have a Cleckley mask The British Conservative Party
is a Cleckley mass

UHT milk from foodbanks we drink it in the evening but we have nothing
to eat or drink the next day or the day after that
Streets of high mortality co-morbidity
O your silver spoon Sixtus Rees-Mogg
O your silver ashes Jeremiah Deen
Systems of high entropy low empathy

White cider of austerity we drink it at midnight we drink it
at midday Economic ****** is an Eichmann educated at Eton
We drink white cider in the evening and the morning we drink and we drink
This Economic ****** is an old Etonian Eichmann
The brute is smooth his evil banal but this most urbane barbarian
adjusts his Cleckley mask like an Overton window

O your silver spoon Sixtus Rees-Mogg
O Grenfell austerity crematoria
so uplifting they chortle
Foodbanks are uplifting they smirk
Universal Credit is the final solution
now Economic ****** is the Master of Britain
O your silver spoon Sixtus Rees-Mogg
O your silver ashes Jeremiah Deen
Feb 2018 · 3.0k
Rebel Cherry (lyric)
If you wanna lose your rebel cherry,
never give away your rebel cherry.
The Man, he is slippery
as a cat called Quantum Gravity.

I never wanna hear your rebel yell
was tracheotomised by trials of a rebel.
The Eternal Yes made in Madison Avenue.
We don't always win but rebels never lose.

If you wanna lose your V-sign
V-plates, you gotta frig the system.
The Man, he is a jive
turkey of received wisdom.

I never wanna hear your rebel yell
was tracheotomised by trials of a rebel.
The Eternal Yes made in Madison Avenue.
We don't always win but rebels never lose.

What we gotta lose
except for our chains?
Our workfare & zero hours?
What we gotta lose
except for our chains?
And our flowers
to Che Guevara?
As Ludo turbo'd stage left, thanks to a faroff yank,
he was pulled into the shape of an Egyptian ankh,
& even tho' holding hands w/ a fly was rather gank.

Eloise instinctively grabbed a mitt
(well aware flies' limbs are oft-caked  in bits
of **** & garbage goop, but as a tomboy, it

was 2nd nature to throw hygiene to the wind).
Whilst Weeze skitched ride on  new muscid friend,    
Ludo joked, 'We're like Jan Van Dyne & Henry Pym!'

But this wasn't occasion for comicbook references
when chessboard cord schlepped 1 of his appendages
w/ swiftity of hurricane giving wedgies,

Eloise hung on for dear life (& life can be pretty dear
- why, there's nippers born in hock to their stork shippers).
If earth-intimate as  Amerindian's ear,

were your eyes, you would discern
teeny track thru Emeralds' garden Weeze's crocs had burned,
Fuschia swisscheesed slip-ons ploughed thru loden

moss & emerald swarth microfurrow not dissimilar
to 1 upon Ludo's brow as he beheld his immediate future:
'Uhrm, oi Red, do you feel a little like a water-skier?'

'Why, Ludo, now you mention it, I guess I do. Whatever's at
other end of Sillitoe anklebinder's the towboat
& my towrope's, well, you!'
'I'm glad you think that,

coz we're about to get a tad wet!' the fly warned.
Slapheading breeze tousling her red bangs,
Weeze craned
her neck: in front outstretched the Emeralds' pond.

She braced herself for the ker-splooshdown,
- KERSPLOOP! Eloise was towed across brown
H2ewww of pond Mr.Emerald never quite got quite around

to de-silting w/ the spiffy electric pump
still sitting in its box in his shed.
'Ranga runt,'
wake up!' Fresh insult exhorting her to 'JUMP!',

she lent forward instead, her forward motion too rapid
to leap. Hopping from leg to leg  in panic, until a wee leaf
was slid
beneath her crocs by Ludo. Eloise waterskiied                    

'pon impromptu slalomboard for sum total of 3 seconds,
when abruptly draughtboard dragline's tow lessened,
dunking Weeze's doughty chin into dug in cauldron

of pondscum & reeds clawing like zombies.
Fumbling for 'fiddlesticks', 'Oh... violintwigs!'  what Eloise
cursed just as genteely. Ludo's leaf ski, lifepreserving debris

such as sailors hug when ship's in Atlantean port.
'God must be Lord of The Flies, withholding wings from
ranga runts,'
philosoflyed Ludo, for tho' checkpatterned lariat

still looped his limb, he could hover no bovver now
there was a lull
in the invisible impetus that had hauled
them both into the Emeralds' pondwaters far from crystal.

'Look, Ludo, you've got enough of them, so why not
gimme a hand?'
He airlifted her back atop the leaf,any chivalry canned  
by snide mumble on why she was so heavy, milligrammed

by miniaturising shazam of shrinking rap 5
looooong minutes ago.
On leafraft she squatted, forlorn upon  pond once
deemed shallow,
when, like a waterboatman, limp likeness for Ludo

idled by w/ Dead Sea-style defiance of the depths.
'Don't cry, pink & orange fly!' the fly floating by said.
'It could be worse, you could be like me - stone blummy dead!'

Ludo himself still trod air like junior helicopter,
white & black-squared shackle drooping slack upon
pondwaters
& winding over overgrown horizon. Newcomer

introduced himself to Eloise:
'Name's Dodo, if you please,
pink & orange femme fly! Well, I was once, but my
demise
has w/ rotten indecent haste already arrived!'

Yez, woe is me, humble dead fly bobbing on the Brown Sea!
yez, a humble, feted philarthropodist, whose mummy
fussed w/ buzz of favoritizzzm to maggot me upon her knee!

Yez, humble, most lovable larva Death 's jaws hath squished,
as if lightening pinched by Myagi's chopsticks pedagogic.
Except it's ling...ger...ring end, tragic tracheae flooding
                                                          w/ fluick...

Yez , alas am I, peach damsel fly! Hey, you're
not my dear mum
in a vision, are you? Your hair's different. So is your face.
But come
closer, plant a smacker on your son, as to the Grim Swatter he doth
succumb!'

'Firstly, Dodo, I'm not your mum - I'm not even a fly! Secondly,
you're quite the yapperbox for a bucket bug, frankly,
even for one w/ far still to fly to great dogturd in the sky!'

Thus did she set straight the fakely fey fly,  but Weeze did wonder
as whimsical aside, if God even owned a dog - was the G'reaper
God's rotty or staf? Did his nametag read 'Grover'?
Poochy ponder  

could not long withstand incessant bombination    
of Ludo & Dodo in stereo. 'Yez, I've got 5 feet in
the grave, Mama Mosca...' Morbid muscid bellyaching

of Dodo's seemed more apropos when out of this scamp
of a swamp that passed for a pond, notwithstanding a cramp
he crochetted about, upkicked a leg w/ amaranth

pink hobble, like a freshly ironed earthworm wrapped
'round one
of his sextuple ankles.Elosie despaired: 'Oh, not another one!'
Anchored by his own silky legiron, flitterbugging for fun

above pondscum, Ludo took mickey outta Dodo's sticky
predicky:
'Mwahahaha, that's Cribbage's tongue! Most froggies'
tongues are flicky,
but he fly-fishes with his, reels them in, does Ol' Cribby!

You're gonna live up to your name now, Dodo, you dumdum!'
Ommatea welled up, diddly discoballs w/ lachrymation,
tho' before Dodo's dolourous dewdrips had minutely swollen

the pond, Ludo's own fetter tensed,
horseflypower revved at remote end
again. Weeze cogged this was, for Dodo, a godsend,

not  the God' s dog's end.
'Buckle your seatbelt!' she urged then gripped
waterbabe fly w/ right, flyboy fly w/ left mitt,
but as full pull heaved trio skyward, it craned the, erm,
   cranium
of Cribbage!
http://chirpydirges.co.uk/weeze-2/
Introducing an ickle intellectual,
a firehearted, foxhaired tomboy geek called
Miss Eloise Agatha Emerald.

Who's sharp as a button, who's bright as a whip
(a button sharpened upon flint of print,
& fairylights 'round such a whip would twist)!

So Weeze Emerald whiled away summer hols,
reading loony tome by a man named Carroll
Mrs.Emerald bought from a shop called Jarrolds.  

Dumbing up on a smartphone the modern joy,
but imagination Eloise's neverending toy,
tho' she didn't dream up the chipmunkish 'Oi'

interrupting her reading in the garden.
She put down her book and begged the pardon
of indeterminate orator th'Oi had come from.

She searched side to side, her red bob flicked;
she looked under her ***, her red bangs dipped;
she shook her red head - did she daydream  it?          

'Oi, Orange Bonce, giantess, over here!
Atop the 5th daisy to your left, my dear,'
squeaky cheeky buzz buzzed somewhere near.

Eloise Emerald had a snout about
- 1 daisy, 2 daisy, 5 flowers the count
whereupon she spied source of the mouth.

Highpitched purr far from chippurr
the chipmunkish hum of gauzy-wing-flapper,
uncommon bluebottle showing little stiff upper    

proboscis.
Who'd Oi'd Eloise at top of his 'Oice
sported tiddlywink shields over his joints
& did stew as blue as a ballpoint,            

black as a biro, on daisy 5 dancing vexed
(if an ant didn't span one of his legs,
& if he wore pants, most impudent insect

in 'em would 'ave angsty ants.
                           Natural Brownie,
it displeased Weeze to witness
fellow lifeform frowny,
so w/ bookmark she bimbled, then put down her copy

of 'Alice' on the staining grass,  at her place ajar anyway.
' Now, Mr. Fly, all atizz you buzz! Are you, yunno, okay?'
- coz you're mad as monkeybats her rolled eyes
                                                                           conveyed.

'Well, duh! Were I acting out an inner glow,  
would I oi for assist from ****** giantess? No,
so seeing that I have no chOIce...
How do you do, I'm Ludo!'

'There's no need to be uncouth, Ludo the Fly,
Eloise A. Emerald at your service, but I
advise you buzz w/ decorum should you seek an ally.'  

But Eloise A.Emerald didn't hold grudges
(anymore than she'd wear hair up
in foxtail bunches)
& tho' mucky flies strode upon her school lunches,

forthcoming her aid  for new housefly homie,
whose latticed eyes bulged w/ rare mute 'holy-moly'
for thanks.
Ludo's lament: 'O no more to flit free

upon summer breeze from dogpoop to fruitbowl
about my buzziness, for I've stepped in this tangle...'
- he gestured to chequered fetter about his ankle.      

'I's grounded by this strand from who-knows-where,
thread of black 'n' white-squared gungey gossamer.'
'Woz ye not,' Eloise consoled, 'I'll yank it offa yer!'

'Up your nelly, ****** giantess! Dem galumph-
ing thumbs will pluck off one of my limbs
before the squillion vermillion honeycoombs

of my compound eyes bawled w/ 1 wince.
No, p'haps
bookworm like you can better flex her thinking cap
at close quarters. Can you sing a shrinking rap?'

He instructed Eloise to repeat after him:
' Yoyoyo! If you wanna get down
where the grass ain't strimmed,
do da kreepykrawly krump wit' no need to squinge;

if you want da title of 'Titch'  in Lilliput,
if you wanna measure up to underfoot,
gotta spit dis shrinking rap and shake your, er, boot!'

As he rapped, Ludo busted out some breakdancing moves
only 6 legs could really pull off. Eloise mused
it was prolly a good job she hadn't ripped 1 of them loose,

echolaling along to resizing rap craptacular.
' If you wanna hi-5, erm, hi-40 a spider;
get stuffed on single sweetcorn kernel for supper;

if you wanna bants with a Borrower, 'Fanx for the lend,
but I fear your cargopants won't fit me, my friend',
sing Ludo's shrinking rap right thru to da end!

Deez dinkifying rhymes, repeat to go to
a destination w/ a stunning worm's eyeview!
****** giantess, now Thumbelina No.2 !'

At shrinking rap's finale (phew!), Eloise
shuddered w/ migraine of submolecular squeeze.
There was nauseous flash, then g-force of more Gs

than Mr. & Mrs.G & their large family in every seat
of rollercoaster whose carnie controller fell asleep,
save it was reverse g-force for her mass decreased.

As did her height, from current stature aged 11
to shorty she was at 7, pipsqueak at 6,
pipsqueakier even
at 6 months, to once-upon-a-bun-in-Mrs.Emerald's-oven,                    
  
til­l, sultanasize, her meagrements matched the flyrical fly's.
Unkempt green blades now bowed high
above her red head. Weeze saw red too, no way would she occupy

the bottom of the bottom of the garden forever,
facedown 'Alice' unfinished if its spine-ridge were shelter!  
'Ludo,' she grrred, 'I'll pluck that leg off now, GRRR!'

'Ah c'mon, ****** Gian...  oh riiiiiight, I need to come up
with some new materi...'ELP!!!!!!!!'  
Before Weeze got more bugged,
                                 Ludo was dragged off
                                 when legature on his lig,
I mean ligature on his leg, was dealt                     distant tug.
Illustrated version: http://chirpydirges.co.uk/eloise-1/
Nov 2017 · 2.2k
This Be The Chorus (Lyric)
I am not the Jesus Christ of Standupcomedy.
I am catlitter & coffeegrounds.
I am not the Elvis of ****.
I am the Spectre of Communism
in a dressinggown.

The banes of the world are the liberals & ponces
if you believe neoliberals & nonces.
Oi, oi! Here comes trouble:
whistleblower troubadour.  
Oi, oi! Here comes trouble:
dialectical rockstar.

I am not the ***** Wonka of Minneapolis.
I am an old cassette whirring to a halt...
klik I am not the Disco Pope.
I am the last pale interesting European scalp.

The banes of the world are the liberals & ponces
if you believe the neoliberals & nonces.
Oi, oi! Here comes trouble:
whistleblower troubadour.  
Oi, oi! Here comes trouble:
dialectical rockstar.

Oi, oi!
Yo slave!
Io, io!
Saveloy.
tight as tartan turpsnudgers' pursestrings
be proverbially bound,  titely as such
   stucious rufous stereotypes succumb
          ta brite lutes' letheanthems,
        lushbrutes' 'Lemme atums
               o' shanter!' Or tight as a sequentialbumperoffer's
scotch-
tape mufflers
o coCeeness is! Is i did as i did as i didun needtanot let Her come
so instant-aye nearuz, wusso instant tame me
us that it's weird, but neverso weird it's too near
ta me. i wanna bethe darkest mother-
****** me when i grow ups and downs,
with the hardest core, found
a strop shire by the banks of the
river viccissippi of my tude.
Didbut i dodon't knowbe-
cause She's

what i should do now. Now it's notso cool,
atleast not forso long, when i'm almine all pine, alone in he-
heat, so no more solongs thatmatter
for long. Coz notso long, i'm on my waynow,  
past no win knowin', 'ceptsave formore of the cosmic conspiracy
surroundin' that lackof
facts, 'bout what? Love's precogknitif
life, divine aboulia for two freer ta have an os sacrum
when we ache yum,  th'our liferent *** is a sacrament

where earth's choicest mercy lives,
so let no terse or courtesy put it asunder.
In postorgasmic sangfroid
of Our warmhearts mushymooey woozydoodlewick
what crucithickies fremd for sin,
lysanity lives! Tho' not in 'otel-
rooms exscinded, unexplainable stains th'intel of sin
exciting dishonesty's exsecting.  No, 'tis a clean join and high,
fidelity. We should even love our exes like the dead.
And love, that's clearish as ***
- i'm hi-sayer only ta Her, intensely, without leave.
It's no Ceecret or liceycret
Cee crept thru me like
a heavy geppetto ta haul my crawl
outta woodwork alps, pathetfordforests of rubbots,
bullbait of bare traps.

i was a secretbomb, bardear-  
drumfusedtongue secretin'  
sonic glooms of imploetry. But now i'm Cee's ******,
for She unstuffed my **** -  was no secret
bom bardit or owt, thiswaswhere my secretbomb bard-
'ead popped.

Quittin' poisonous logic
of mithridatic reclusivity coz She's sweet
as killesterol puddings, juggerpukka as an oldmucker
inthe years youth spruced up.
Sweet teeceepee shootist - of no putrefying pistol - Shestuns
forever my septisame me a bloodpoising wishfear

gunloadedwith one odd advantage, granted.
Such germs from exes were hexes less tacit
than tackedon bullets, but i'm pompomhome
in terms of pumpaction playtime  
coz Ceejay's my x-ies, WAHAYvision - loosens
my tying visions of a horseshoe shootingiron
like a t-1000's lassoicide.

i'm fondlefully fond of sapiosexbomb Cee,
explosionofpossibilities She sets off defuses me.
She's eminently permissible Satirist and Sanitarian,
with looking mind healthilfy enough ta free blind liceman
of ingrown sights astriple x as a ******* and a saltire
spitroasting a treasuremap.
Cee desterilicezingly ***** out endobrutal, selfshootin' growth
of mansdownsides, old sting-
ing in licey's riskyexwhores of eyes,
mouldering from all those stolid saladdays
when sensuality was a trope
quite like 'tripe', 'trap', 'trip'.  

o my Hereye's on... Sensed event, You all i...
Over softcoarse or rather falsehooddivorced firstdays,
and debauched and engorged allthenextdays,
that my Girlfriend's exceptional! Cee's cool-
ness is basking praxis of lenient idealism running a home
whichint runfrom; belle axe ta the ******'s hut my heart'd become!

Finely striped belly, tough as a tygoness, CJ yanks  
me like i'm Her jackpot, baby'sarmedbandit,
wags lucky lice like willie lumpkin's lugs,
-  no fairystale ballaxe or unporny story, between my legs
when She's happywith... Meow-
gasm? i growlgasm,
i'm that twaggish kind of cheshire ****, whizzed
thruol' churchorcheese toothshowin' carrolliannmog's insanityquiz.
Hearing voices, multiplechoices,
4 CJ
51st State ain't a fit state,
so Uncle Scam can stick his free trade!
I'd rather stay home on Knifecrime Isle,
just avoid Babylon-don, globalist plague.

Yank planks shoot down Obamacare,
yet pledge to mass sidearm-chosis.
Superpower w/ a deathwish,
all of our nemesis.
Wall St. planet of collateral damage.
America, world's more than a star
in Melania's prayers!

Melania, Melania!
Plastic prayers!
America, America!
Plastic prayers!

Tinpot rocket kettles called black
by yuge orange imperialistic ***,
whilst Rust Belt runs on crystal ****
& cosmic chocolate fireguard called God.

Guess in America God can hear
you better from a golden tower...
Oct 2017 · 544
Magnetode, Finitode
O when gammy gamete of his gamma mamma
and Sellarfield spoff from his pappy’s photonfried *******
seeded the Caeser of our replacers,
the Mohammed of the Muties;
when biology’s genius botchology doodled Salvadordarwinny winners,
Magneto’s mamma’s doctor had ultrasound butcher’s ,
then the doc gollygoshed,
‘You’ve got the ruthless idol to a whole evil brotherhood
of Rugrats of Rutherford up there, my dear!’
And the doctor called his doctor,
who called the police, who called Captain Beany,
who called federal forces – ‘fraidycrats who fingered
an all-time rut in resources – and called Supercynic,
who didn’t buy it and b’sides had no pro-human bias,
but decades later mentioned it in bed with Missus
Martian Manhunter, who called Martian Manhunter,
who was in a *** bar on Mars, hunting a good Martian man.
But some little green queen who’d probed down Brighton in the past,
flying low, cruising in his youhoo.F.O., a humane Martian
called the Earth Embassy, who called the United Nations,
who called a conference of capitulation, and now all call Magneto
Maestro di Mondo Mucho Magnifico Neato,
MyliegeyourexcellencytheguvnorthreemagspulIwemeanthreebagsfullsi­r.

But I know me too well, and if my wish had been written in redshift
for express delivery, my cosmic order primordialed,
if back to the Planck Epoch the Royal Mail could retroject a plea,
addressed to an aeon or so after God bled light districts,
when Her celestial storge was in its prime prestarry
(before expansion of the Creator’s
postnatal depression made ****** granite mcguigan monadnocks
seem more high and soft than God)
- yeah, if I hadn’t might as well flushed it down a blue elliptical
galaxy, if my prayer had a prayer of
not being under Her radar (all the others were),
but it had aired on God’s baby monitor back when She suppliied
6 daycare, then off my knees, airgonaut with an acierated heart,
I’d be annealed a steely manly overman of steel.

But I’d most likely cheapen that mantle purpureal,
coz if Magneto was me, he’d be a minnow
who’d squander those meaty mutie superpowers,
one of the four fundamental forces  
falling straight from gracerightinto
purloining perv shelves,
jamphlets and jugmags and skinzines and the Daily Inthealtogether,
cumics such as the Creamo and the Randy ****** out of the pornershop
letterbox by a grumblemagnetter, ***** old pied piper of purdy paper
pulling flat stacked girls from grumbelows on a metallokineticowinnow
by their pierced creases.
Like some poltergeist tealeaf
who can’t decline his deadman’s diamondcutter,
I’d be Magneto
bathos had a rainmacked beckoner of centrefolds’ staples,
notso twinkle twinkle Stan Leethal story
of the Fuehrer as Uri Geller on roids.
But now I’ve wondered what you are, Magneto, finito.
Sep 2017 · 526
Magnetode, 4
It’s a freak if anyone has a future, save the freaks,
who have date with a bed of radioactive rainbow roses,
if they stick like, yep you guessed it, a magnet
to their magus, their Moses,
who parts devil’s roped chainlink
and reinforced concrete all the way to Mutopia.
Also unnormals’ Noah,
whose forcefield arc preserves all alpha lepers,
their atomicuglystickpounded stegga squaws
and stronty swampdonkey progeny,  
all those whose Quasimodo chromosome's a d’oh!
transliterated into DNA
shall pass on their futureshock stock
out of harm's way,
under cover of a mag(safety) net
for tho' facebenders be not fair,
a horlicksedhelix fassache
is not the mug cullions wear
in the Magnetosphere.
Magneto will not forsake freaks,
freaks need not fear    
his magnetic flipout:
entire EMfield is an akeldama
exclusively anthropocidal.  
Soon a GM child won’t need shieldin’ at all!

For those with molecules
molested more mirific than mere Merricks
and their muntant, minghawk consorts,
those with superabundant gains of function,
who owe thanks to industrial puddles
or flytipt is’topes for fly freak powers ,
these saddle up their war wuzzles and blue lobsters
from growth hormone oceans, then
chimera heroes charge the humes,  
the norms, mean mediocracy of muggles!
His Magjesty’s neomorphic myrmidons

versus irremedial malevolence of megamedium men,
well, what’s left of them
after they’ve  met their Makermatcher
maxing out the meetyourmakerometer,
literal worldbeater
splatting the reign of hubristic, Hum Bom‘ avin’ it hominids.
O eggbeaterbladesjamming,
lamppostwrapping,
traintrackcravatting
awesome welly, wrath
of Magneto!  Nemesis has no chance:
Prof X, babysbottombonced telepath
explodes everted by his own zinc supplements,
all his vitals evaginated with noise of a backward raspberry
– YRREBPSAR!
No, maybe just ker-SPLURKSHH! In front of news crews
from ‘Good Morning Gomorrah’, and what’s morer,
tho’ what they caught on camera was slipshod,
was coz new screws were oscillating right outta new tripods.

The Daddy Mag’s sapiosayso all it took,
delivered with a sidedishin’ shirty look,
supercilious fingerclick,  then supercallous frangible physics
he expedited lawless, as at a singularity’s mathematical badlands,
and sent all metal mad.
Spelt red death for the Prof,
whose own minerals reaving ionised skinned
mindreading Ironside skinhead entoectad.  
Now coquelicot slop, clairvoyant bald as a coot
must have been suicidal spod to *** off
muties’ Malcolm X and Master of the Universe’s Pulling Method
– like Timmy and his mallet in one corner,
Thor with Mjolnir in the other. Or a story with drawings by Jack Kirby,
juxtaposed next to a coat of emulsion narrating Jackanory.
Coulda just magnetised the Prof’s wheelchair
into the back of some haulier’s cyclistsquisher,
but Magneto’s a hammy Shiva, gloryhog like all gods.

O I know Barreness Margaret Hilda Von Doom’s more macho,
but were I my muse, Magneto, well, no Hitlerian librarian
could judgementdaydream so.
Sep 2017 · 325
Magnetode, 3
Raised by repulsion from the nearest or attraction to the furthest
pole, over lode ranges levitating loxygenlessly, His Hypergrav Grace.
Is it the spirit of Ed Headrich, his frisbeing free from his body,
tho’ underwhelmed by his halo, an aureate Aerobie?
Or is it a crimson crow? No: Magneto.
If the posthuman is a Pandora’s box,
he’s its inexorable crowbar, Evolution’s new broom.
Natural Selection a sovereign reinstated
by muta-über new bar,
master who has no call for crowbars or keys, tinopeners, boltcutters,
of knurling or bending his mag-knees-toes when lifting        
marines outta degaussed exosuits by the scruff of their dogtags
- let them hover till they hang!

Basketballingly belittling
a B-52, curlynealing a jet bomber on th’end of his index,
coz round his pinkie imperious Magneto twists
electrons’ spins and orbits.
Awesummoning electromagnetic pulses,
big bogoff SHA-KOOM! shockwaves,
that bring Nato’s whirlybirds of prey, chinooks, to book
(e.g. the ‘Book of the Devil Valley Master’ from 4th century BC China).

And as for the F22 Raptor
-  watch out, that’s a brandnew…Oh, scrapt war-
bird. Steel its Achilles’ heel,
mankind’s  collective military might
humbled into a junkyard on high,
a giant junk gyre crinklin’ and creakin’,
scraping and chiming as all modernity metallurgic
is mashed about the ambit of the carcrusher eye
of his chrome Charybdis in the sky.
Vast and vortical vectorfield realised in lithe steel,
seething silver stratospriral o’ swirly enswallowment
straddles Megiddo, with accretion disc of armoured ooze
like a platinum worldwreath,
but no condolence means Magneto.
No large hadron collider had to collude in
this inhaling metalmouth of a hellmouth,
where to winged lemming death
magnetoceptive real birds might be misled.  
It'd magnettickle my ethmoid bone,
my lapsed biocompass’d soak up teslas and oersteds
till  lagnetism of hysteresis heated
my gone cold prehistoric sense of direction,  
my bearings on fire f’hours
after his fingers apocalypclickt
a billion ballbearings
to buckshot the firmament.
Sep 2017 · 606
Magnetode, 2
Twinkle twinkle Stan Leethal story
of the Fuehrer as Uri Geller on roids.
Overlord lovely in a cape chromarinated
in shells of murex, wearing unionsuit exterior pants
(his are a rhapsody in rhodopsin)
over longjohns of magenta spandex.
And brightred buckethead
helmet, which deflects ESPeeping by pilgarlic psychic Prof X,
coz genetic raggy dolls’ rex transcends Brand X!

Tinker , tailor? Tut, I wanna be the Fuehrer as Uri Geller on roids,
supernally surfin’ Sheffield steel shoah of swarming saucepans,
shaving blades and stanleeknives and saws and Saabs
and copcars and ironore meteorites. Also, the surgical
instruments of the street and the shanks of medical science;
sets of stainless steakspears of infomercial provenance;
scraggy skyscrapers got by the girders , horizontally hurled
as if Godzilla’s ghost improvised  9/11esque javelins.

Magneto’s only weakness is that he repels fridge magnets,
and same re pelmatic neodymium of toy taikonauts for spacewalks.
No matter when he can magicnetise
fridges to fly with a flock of killer falling filing cabinets
in an ironfilingsswirling firmament!

Whether noble or base, the metal in everything mangled
into motion at his megalomagnetic fingerclick,
raising a scrapmetal maelstrom thru mere cerebration,
which shines retribeautifully
as it veers quadrivially at some veerlocity,
on fourwayspliting beeline to align with
recycled hails of sharpnel shellcases,
as well as virgins to internal ballistics,
all the bashful bullets never barrelistically trajected,
yet volitating with a vengeance to
Washington and Salem, Berlin and Genosha.
For starters.
Sep 2017 · 698
Magnetode, 1
All thru the all too **** crapien weeks of human weakness,
I wished upon faraway far ago farty fled fusion,
upon Polaris (star that wags Baby Bear,
not Wanda and Quicksilver's stepsis ),
upon any old alien civilisation’s screwy sun/s,
upon colossal conkedout spinfernos and neutron glowwormholes,
but God must have gone fishin’.

Or is She still a few
puffedup predicates prefixed ‘omni-‘ short of a Godhead,
still an interstellarmedium cadet after Her pre-Bigbang epidural?
Or just washing Her dark matted hair, God a Rapunzel
with superstring bob I cannot dream up like Jacob?

A powerlessnesscrazed petition went PEYOWM!
outta my polarised soul, grim and swift as sylviacidal dew,
or rush hour reaper atop an atrous cheetah,
skeletal chevalier shepherding spirits
of manic street pizza.
O supplication newselfseeking  
approprihated my full steam squirminmyownskin
for a reaction mass,
'swhy seekanddestroy geekandfanboy's
rogation rightly rocketed… Right
into the overriding white noise
of God’s Rice Crispies, madding crowd of cosmic
microwave background radiation.
Suppose I’m stuck with stealth seething,
finding myself sorely wanting, sorely needing
the confidence boost of being **** superior,
which is what my warp factor wish was for.
G’arn God, givvus mutie superpowers
like a registered trademark of Marvel Comics,
and not just metahuman partytricks,

coz I wanna be the instantaneous ironsmith
himself, metal’s mesmeric animator, demiurgic gremlin
mentally meddling with enemies' mechanics,
ballonanimauling  their oilderricks.
Ferroshistin’ scifi miracle terrorism
at Magneto’s theatrical fingerclick.
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