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14.7k · Aug 2018
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)
14.4k · Apr 2017
Neville Moore (after Poe)
One day I will depart the train at a station without a name,
Pull emergency cord and take the plunge thru parted doors.
I'll pack no suitcase or bindle, in my head young, free and single,
I will be a living swindle - wherefore art prat poet of before?
New job doing something I've shown no interest in before,
Change my name to 'Neville Moore'.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After Poe's misnomer, well, misnumbered: one short, 17 stanzas  
Ironically encode birthday of old dud cub who overroars
Last-ditch striped leopard, tame un-me. Lord Lucan, he WAS lucky
-  there's freedom in fake ID! But Neville grew sick, sick of me no more
Now as one two selves expire, same sigh of relief 'low sallow sycamore:
Thank **** Lice is nevermore.
My birthday is 17/05.
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.
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!
8.1k · Jul 2018
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
7.5k · Jan 12
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!'
'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
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.
4.7k · Dec 2016
The Purple Pubes
The Purple *****

Did you know I’m in a band called the Purple *****?
We’ve quite the cult following in my living room.
I am the talent, but sometimes Divvy Dan
takes a break from the scrounge
to be my wreckhead Rent-a-Bez
tambourine stooge.
There’s no point in a ticket, we are too impromptu;
at loco o’ clock I just put on a show.
Can’t go on a tour, too raw for the rubes.
Can’t cut a record, too avant-garde for the cubes.
We’re not about the music, it’s purely the *****.
Acoustic nogoodniks, grot-rock goons
with dregs in our cries, embers in our croons,
ignored by the neighbours who know it’s dole-day afternoon,
when the ***** play to forget they are doomed.

You won’t have heard of a band called the Purple *****
- the singer’s a ******* loser, tambourineman looks like
he's on shrooms.
I’m the talisman, but sometimes Divvy Dan
never takes a break  from the tam,
lost in vague remembered woods
of sniffing glues enthused.
We’ve already trashed our lives, don’t need hotelrooms.
At lobo o’ clock howl do you do
is what my greeters growl at my muse,
which is the watching blue wolf of lost youth.
When you got them borderline underclass steppenwulf blues,
the Black Dog is but a picnic pooch.
Bow-hoo-hoo-wow, may the mirth of Mozart infuse
my yelps of yearning and yowls
that we were born lambs and will die tramps we two.
The ***** have a jam to forget for a time
that monkey see, monkey consume.

We love you, goodnight, we have been the Purple *****.
We are even ******* than the ****** Beatles.
I’m tambourine man too, sometimes Dan
takes a break from the tam,
cryin’ over my childhood nylon untuned,
ballads for blacktoothed prostitutes.
And my love-life is as rock ‘n’ roll
as a lecture on medieval looms,
but we’re still too rock ‘n’ roll to be found on your Youtubes
- we’ve never left the living room, we’ve kept to our roots.
Sisters of mercy lie sing we dead boys of truth,
who are honestly really rock ‘n’ roll, do you want some proof?
Well, the other day I let Danny’s dog lick my open wounds.
We haven’t got an ad in the back of the Boogaloo News,
what self-respecting young dude wants to be a ****?
Flying Dutchmen don’t rearrange deckchairs,
we need no road crew,
but all you sober truth troubadours too troubled to troube,
Danny’s damnbourine also tolls for you.
Coz, brother, that white dole-monkey
keeps time with the devil’s own soul-hungry grooves.
But then again I’ve had a few.
We’ve been the house band since time and tenancy began,
we’ve spent our lives on the road that’s skewed.
You’d think we’d rock more having so much nothing to lose,
but the Purple ***** play because all hope is pooped.

Doomed,
the band split. Now Dan bangs the tam
for the Stolen Runes.
And I joined a ***** tribute band
called the Banned Tribunes.
Air guitar never goes out of tune.
Rock 'n' roll.
4.7k · Dec 2018
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.
My modernday Morgan Le Fay
used to make love on graves,
now she sleeps all day.
She's a zomballerina in a zombikini.
masking her feelings with mirtazapini.
Dr.Fangoria prescribe the Torah!
Dr. Creepshow prescribe the Gospel!
O baby, do you still believe in All Hallow's Eve?

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

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

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

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

This hello how low Halloween
I'm gonna go as a headless axeman.
3.5k · Aug 2018
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.
3.4k · Jan 2017
Guardian Stalker (Lyric)
I'm a **** in silverfoil
with an outlaw's Excaliber.
Bottle of Moet,
I'll glass 'em like a poet.
You don't seek my mad company,
but should you meet bad company,
don't woz your pretty head over secret ingredi-
ent in my  Punisher's Pigfeed.

Coz you gotcha self a guardian stalker,
gotcha back, aintcha noticed
how all of your opponents slowly
grace missing posters?
Guardian angel taking out his frustrations
on your every enemy: you don't know you need me.
Coz every kiss I miss I gulp to my fist,
every yelp  of my heart
calls for a friggin' riot!

Sometimes you feel me on the night,
your own personal Dark Knight.
I firebombed Brighthouse
- why didja think that tumbledryer was on the house?
I won the war of all your stalkers,
but last code red cost me a cold blood rap.
'Cherchez la femme'
my ooh-la-la Remoaner
Knox Road tat. Reminds me ...

I'm your guardian stalker,
I went bit Christopher Walken
on your daughter's bully's father
in a black balaclava.
Guardian stalker, you know
that ****** dogwalker  
found sleeping with the ducks
- I did it for you, Fido too!
Coz every kiss I miss I gulp to my fist,
every yelp of my heart
calls for a friggin' riot!

Guardian stalker, uh-huh! Guardian stalker o' her!
Guardian stalker, uh-huh! Guardian stalker o' her!
You can't **** a man who's already been killed by love.
You can't **** a man who's already been killed by love.
Emergency convening of COBRA
can't **** a man killed by love.
Even Walker, Texas Ranger
can't **** a man killed by love!
Knox Road = Norwich prison
3.4k · Oct 2018
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.
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.
3.0k · Feb 2018
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?
2.5k · Jan 2017
Deathreat Notes, 2
Deathreat Man sent Mrs.Deathreat to the continent,
dud doves smuggled thru the Chunnel in her clungeal
cavity, but even the Olympicwatchdog’s  
human snifferdogs wouldn’t conduct a narc
nosedive into Mrs.Deathreat’s  Annsummersnumber,
coz the amount of drugs in the drugs
the Deathreats deal is next to nil,
contrabland, all the scorer chorma
minus the highness.  Mrs. Deathreat
was mule with a hole, she was
Muffin the ****, but hug drugs up her clopper
kept the pillheads of La Rochelle
social clodhoppers who danced like Joecocker,
so they sent
themselves to bed early outta pity
for their own unhappening, nonfunspasming
hips. They wanted to be eating their upperlips,
they were brownedoff that the grey gradegetter their mums
had maximised with Omega3 hadn’t had its chips,
in no danger of being Gallic Gatecrasherkids.
They wanted to be braiMDaMAged,
Bezzes in berets on duracell drugs, balistically
blissed enuff for
Balearic drill ‘n’ bass drum ‘n’ gluegun
bhangraggabba Gangsta Abba or the Triphopscotch,
but they were no buzzing sitting ducks
for whatever vibranium vinyl
spun like Lindablair’s head or whatever Tonyblair eversaid
on decks that layer beats.
On the plusside, none of Mrs.Deathreat’s fleeced Frenchies
would do a Leahbetts, but that would not console
the Pillheads of La Rochelle, les herberts, still tediously
on their cognitits unless the Angel Ravey L
- pushermanifestation of the patron saint of getting mashed -
pharmathaumaturgically ticks
up some of that numinous ****
for neurotransmission,
a miracle drug effective without ingestion, Immaculate
Consumption, when all the laws of biochemistry go Petetong.
But, alas, riboflavin and ibuprofen are harder and more
happycore, send
cerebrum more signals of fly bo’ ravin’
than shonk Es Mrs.D
squelchily dealt from out crotchless unmentionables.

Now, the technotarantist addicts d’Avignon,
les personnes adonnees a ‘aving one
from Provencal Pontefract-on-the-Rhone
(where Picasso pimps scrimp
coz Cubist hookers ain’t lookers),
les avaleurs of mitzies and bishies
rather than le plonque (rouge ou blanc),
wou’nt ‘ave it if they weren’t ‘aving it
in that wellaged wine of a town.
They’d be sent spare
if Mrs.Deathreat dared ****** ’em there
with fraudulent Franglais avowals that they’d
‘avoir it large, Pierre!’
There’d be stormin’ Bourbons in Avignon, yeah,
if they couldn’t electwitch to DJ Saintvitus
because of some ***** doves. Adamdroppers
in Avignon know their discobiscuits
from their biscodiscuits, comprende?
But the Pillheads of La Rochelle? Quelle pillocks!

XTCtablet escroquette sent by her deaththreatening
not dishwashening husbandit,
madame des merde mollies sent **** shivers
of letdown lucidity thru the cuddle puddle jungle
drums that pure vexes the cortexes of Senors Beeg
amongst thizz biz fixers, the Cortez Bruvas.
As young fluff she'd boasted more
overzealous sweaty inspectors than Ofsted,
but now Mrs Deathreat's hairy goblet
would be of sweet ***** adams interest
to the syndicate if only her ***** adams were sweeter.
Funnily enough, fact her serpent socket
is no Aladdin’s cave of Hacienda Hedex,
but more an  Anadin Cove of dummy drugs
has dem Cortez muthas jumpy thugs.
Traffikers of Lover’s Speed in hock
to the Sam Madrid mob, they express
narcommercial concerns that mock mookers
up her thrushenflamed damianduff
are so cuttonaffall, it could senda fad for temperance
thruout chemiculture of a continent,all
the bluerooms and dancetents of Europa
being once burnt, twice straight
(or turn respectable taxpaying pissheads,
staying in caining an unprohibited crate or eight,
pickling themselves to preserve the State).
But before suspicion  about the serotonocidal
supplyline snowballs, before the Cortezes
even depart the chilloutroom to ****,
or at least put les frighteneurs on her and the tangy
baggie of humbug harryhills, whack weekenders
up her suspenders and past her pudenders,
his missus was already on the homewardbound Eurostar
- for her darling Deathreat was a disastrous
domestic selffender, who'd sent a guava
to the vet's and put her Pomeranian in the blender,
tho' pertainian to value of life he's vilipender,
so to animedic aforementioned prolly not
Snoopy smoothie sender,
unless off the invoice for the guava's jabs
it might scare up a nice little subtrahender.
2.4k · Jan 2017
Deathreat Notes, 9
But it wouldn't hurt to send a Yakuza biker called Keyser Suzaki
as an agent of embracery, who'll hurt any justice nuts amongst
the jury, mow Magnacarta hardliners down doubly with his sports-
bike and his katana. For should goddess Pomeroy pointedly
forgot to blindfold prove totem like Diphoterine t'any o'
that 12, who should have been crying blind ( tho' their
intimidator was trained in Tokyo Road Rash Kendo,
not sprayin' Captor), then they'll send Deathreat Man
to deathrebtors' gaol in a blackmaria like Batman's campervan.
2.4k · Feb 20
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.
2.3k · Apr 2017
Honga Bonga (Lyric)
One day the humanrace
will all be a beige
dullard monoculture
on minimumwage.
The real George Jetson
will **** a hologram,
then skype his priest on Gliese
for some Mandarin Quran.

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

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

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

Hongabonga make the worldgoround,
but in humanbeings I don't wanna drown.
https://www.quora.com/How-far-are-we-from-intergalactic-space-travel
2.2k · Nov 2017
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.
2.1k · Feb 2018
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.
1.9k · Dec 2016
Locum Doc
Locum doc
won’t prescribe me what I want.
Euthanasia and/or a personality transplant.
A stiff drink and a fat joint.
My baby back from the dead
in our favourite restaurant.
Locum doc, gimme what you got,
whatever the latest cutting-edge medical science
can do for a self-absorbed ****.
Because I’m stumped, I must admit:
I recently quit my millionth spliff,
yet upon a paranoid moon, still I live
with inner monologue so bitter,
my brain’s been hacked by a tweeting ******.
And when the liquor turns Twitler off,
next door’s parrot is a prophet of God.
Apparrotly, Jesus thinks I’m a ****.
So, locum doc, it’s a bit ad hoc,
but will you be my focal point?
Don’t be a total ****, locum doc;
gimme me some vallies and I’ll be off.
Locum doc, let’s be friends
- what do ya mean you won't gimme the tens?
Jonestown Kool-Aid coming down stairrods.
Old, sparky stairlifts tail crematoria
clouds.
Adolf's, Presley's lovechild, 20th-hungover
God's
Kuklux twang intones 'Rock & Raus, raus, raus!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I assumed maniacalcackle was madman close,
modulating the Cosmictragedy gelastically,
but my hubris dawned on me: it was Void's amusement
that I thought to sate its inverted Babel intray maw
w/ puny cunting poetry.
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
1.7k · Mar 2017
Noughties Atheist Epiphony 1
At the edge of bliss, in the sensory
embarrassment of riches of a 'Bathoven'  mo',
my Ecclescake ears musicophile
mincement as Ludwig vamped, tho'
chattercatchers hovered craftily
in the tub, weren't waterlugged.
But then
some sceptical scimitar or bayonetbulbed bayonet
out of the blue (but not the bathringed cloudyblue)
bisected my metime as well as all middleman mass,
& thru slash aqueductive the crest
of a Mexican brainwave sloshed - 'twoz
collective conscience of the homocidophobic majority!
Welterskeltering thru insoluble consensus
of the consensually insoluble, united affront of the globe's  
Chinesewatertortured frontallobes
pensivividly poured into the
gourd of lil' ol' me 'aving my Bathoven mo'...

Or were Hindsight & I FWBs, had some
failing future Hevearth sent
me bacsimile of bluetoothless prophetic precog
(it'd be excoriated w/ ECTS  by mad mod docs),
Humanity's Last Hopers uploading downtimestream,
retropinging me the power of ESPeeping?
However it happened,
I henotically kenned the latest hope held fosterghostclose
by most, all whose costard computers boast
basic soulful software of a care in the world, whilstill
Archimedeep in watery thoughtfulness, the grey gunk
of gumption pooling Lysander's skandhas in a body
bagpussed in birthdaysuit box of bent rain
(where Bath Vader K.O.s  B.O.  Wan Kenobi).
This politicophilosophical poem was written and thus set in the early Noughties in the Blair-Bush era. I recently redrafted it fit for pride in publication, but have been careful to avoid anachronistic updates in terms of events or vocab. What with Trump sabrerattling against Isis, 'plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose' comes to mind.
On the merry-go-round,
new love I found.
Caressed hands on dodgems,
but she pinged me a Dear John.
The fair left town with my heart:
left love a grey, trash-strewn park.

How we canoodled by
the coconut shy.
Phoney fortune-teller
foresaw us together.
The fair left town with my heart:
left love a grey, trash-strewn park.

The Big Dipper's
not great for one's dinner,
but its ups and downs thrill.
Love is the ride that makes you ill.
The fair left town with my heart:
left love a grey, trash-strewn park.

Once seatbeats were buckled,
harum-scarum carny cackled.
Sugarcube senses dissolved
as the giant teacup revolved.  
The fair left town with my heart:
left love a grey, trash-strewn park.

Atop the Ferris Wheel,
did I queer this deal?
Should I have fondled her
in the gondola?
The fair left town with my heart:
left love a grey, trash-strewn park.

At hoop-la I won nix
- same with love, is it fixed?
Vendor's upped sticks , in candy floss
I can't even drown my loss.
The fair left town with my heart:
left love a grey, trash-strewn park.

Her name was Elena,
she came from Romania.
Where carnival lights once glew,
now as a disco under Ceausescu:
drab, shabby, dark. Like my heart
of trash, strewn about a fair-departed park.
1.6k · Dec 2016
God Is A Concept (Lyric)
Fulfilling the word of the Law and the Prophets:
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Darth Vader is really Peter Parker's mother.
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Tories are cancer, Labour paedophilia.
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Very cheap, very good one pound fish!
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Over the cliff, Kubrick's monolith.
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
In the gurdwara Sikhs limbodance under
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
All the cops in the doughnut shops go
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!
Viva Chimerica, Neo-Ozymandias!
Paw Patrol posing pouch, Paw Patrol posing pouch!

Is that the Spear of Destiny or you just pleased to see me?
Is that the Spear of Destiny or you just pleased to see me?
Is that the Spear of Destiny or you just pleased to see me?
Minions Mankini heretics burn at the stake...
Just humble stardust w/ a bartab like You All,
yet had mon tete been geniustwatted in the bathtub
by Cosmic Commonsense like a Hollywood dodgem?
The Light's point of view
had starpower of a simple truth,
exhorting all us Occidental folk
who aren't amenwhining wideloads drugged by driving
to revolt & deracinate the armageddaceous vegetable,
Dubya Shrub, that like some ghastly barnaclegoose
propagates slimy hawks, tho' one cannot wot
if they be eagle or cobra from cockatrice collarbone up.
& when talons blossom, a mob of Western civil heroes
should impound such deciduous warbird anti-Kezzes
w/ concrete jesses.
Likewise, the Light doth
entreat the Sheikh in the street & the haytistes of Nice
(whose Frarabic mutterings are half-Qurannish,
half-MC Solaar), & all the hajjis playing
Mohammedean Pom Pom Home - pilgrims hillsboroughing
about the Kaaba - every Muslim
w/ slipped discs of salah, from Kuwait to Qatar, Bahrain
to Bradford: permit the photoflood of Doubt to flash out
faith's fog, for it makes as much sense as Shrubya Dub!
Let the Sunna do a runner w/ the hasbeen Hadith
like the dish & the spoon ( an equally respectable belief),
& submit to a secular baraka
kindspirited as we Christkickers amongst the Kaffir.

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

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

& as for Shrub,
Lone Star Jesus Day-legislatin' gub,
Cheneyyank Kaiser, **** warmonger,
his patri-idiotic pout & gospeldegook
is the cackcreek credo  of the G.O.P.,
where the S.O.G. is Jesus Croesus & G-O-D
is the S.O.B. (Sun Ofa Byss) nudging Shrub,
'Armageddon, are we there yet?'
Arragheddon a bayonet
like a rag to septicephalic beast harbinging
the great Satan-contra-Shaytan ruck on Crusadescursed muck
Scripture schedules for *** yoke of the Z.O.G.
I've seen this supervillain smackdown somewhere before,
American Hordak vs. Saudi Skeletor.
Jaheem= Arabic, 'hellfire'
Jahannam = Arabic, 'Hell'
Jannah= Arabic, 'Paradise'  
houris = Arabic, the 72 Virgins rewarding the virtuous in Heaven
sahih = a hadith (quote) from Mohammed bestowed the rank of utmost authenticity
Shaytan = Arabic, 'The Devil'
S.O.G.= Son Of God
Z.O.G.= Zionist Operated Government
scatbird saddle siddy nowfo You-n-i-dead
Archiplague-o arvUrmerica! Jed
Tarnationatrix frum da Gud Glactic
Neighbership Instute sez hogtyne Spays Shreks
then whammin wilecat wellz urb da jaxies
wel wen Marshan hinds - thail alligndance ta Fraydumb's
hoedown! *** thair ingrates ** go kez Axis
wit Gog n Maygog-dayfrozdin Marslimbs,
hose Aqua47s ez tritchin
ta hydrajack uz wit Warders Mass Drownen

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

astramarines juz wailwishious hose wailarmed,
arn Red ta libralarz ay-lan *** farmz.  
Congressgation, ya Prez haz seen tecket
outta tha skellet, onest inuit:
well churg Marzpan pootrolyam larka Chinch
burg! Az ef Guantanama's centenry,
Merica gonna pardy, buck bad moon sence
Lice Hardy Oswald shart Prezdent Condy
en tow-fordy, ar sence thOPECaleps
o fordysects. N win transpordah sheps
You reach 95, scrimping by like church mice,
but then the very night
you win the lottery,
you have massive coronary:
swings & roundabouts.
Lose your lucky penny,
picked up by your arch-en'my,
but he pops his back out.
You wear the weekend crown,
but your boss is new in town:
swings & roundabouts.
If it weren't so stiff,
canvas would wrap chips
in Vince's time.
But a cench later,
Sotherby's sell 'Sunflowers'
for a trillion demon dimes.
I'm gonna be immortal,
I'm gonna die alone:
swings & roundabouts.
Strings & roundabouts.

Adolf eyeing the Eiffel, Christ on the cross:
swings and roundabouts.
******, B in his bunker; Jesus Prince of Heaven:
swings & schweinhunds.
****** is in Hell, Israel's got Stockholm's:
swings & roundabouts.
If ******'s Hell's himself,
how come that's my hell as well,
and I don't even **** limescale.
But worse wuss Judas abuse jurisprudence
- Dr.Jekyll & Judge Judas hyde behind trust,
30 pieces of silver & roundabouts.
Jesus wept, Judas slept in his Jaguar:
silver linings for downandouts.
Snakes & ladders & roundabouts.

O Swings & Roundabouts Vicar, can I have a word
about my doubts!
O Swing & Boutarounds Vicar, can I have a word
about my doubts!
O Bout & Swingarounds Vicar, can I have a word
about my doubts!
O Round & Swingabouts Vicar, can I have a  word  
about my doubts!
Ain't roundabouts roulette of a grazed knee,
but I have nothing against swings...
Horses for courses really.
1.5k · Mar 2017
Vajazzled Stye Sequence 1
You've got highstandards; I come high as standard.
You don't find me irasciaffably
tibrickling as everytetchyman, Tone Hancock,
so moan O yr kingstomachdom for a sock
when e'er I do my ironichronic act
& asque if it was 'Jaq Chiraq'
who ne gungho pas to 'Irack',
or 'Jark Chirark'
thart did nart embark urpon 'Irark', I arsk?

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

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

A stye for a stye will only endup making the whole world
staphylococcally suppurate about the eyelash follicle.
There skulks a vigilante called Scumbrella
the urban jungle's answer to John Steed.
1/2 werrr, 1/2 weyyy, a mentally unstable fella,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snickets of recidivism precipitation now licks,
but in phonebox where, l/ Ms. Zellweger,
supers flaunt granny pants leans lost brolly ironic.
1.5k · Mar 15
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.
To my local chippy - they're Korean-
to order a Kitkat deepfried in batter.
Odds of survival beat Macky Dee's
cold pasteurised faecal matter.
well bust clymet pyrit slamic varmits,
I-tollah Ray Nothing aglubbin 'Quidit
pleez Yoo Wez, yoo wezzunt Q-klux cloots!
Jar reds aint frootzen jethrobelle crackajack
boots,
lark broback mounaineer kinda kafirs
- glope! Mericurz mo akbar, Ahll raybrand
Allah 'Apple Paella'! I-tollah
Rayll trah gater tears, brainwahshen brr-ounz
pleadin ya Prez lark Belzeebubby seal's
fa lean nancy - laz platoona Navy Seals

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

- bay lark Texicanz versez dem Mexcanz
agin! So Ah sez ta yall, Congressgation,
stayshun arn U.S.S. Welyum Coldy
hair en thOverglades now thars no D.C.:
tha tarm fa whistlen dixies haf paz daird!
Anna senedders arn tha U.S.S.
Termnader Two Judgmaday, locaded
onna Straits o Honalula, hoo wez
gittin fez aydrez bah netcassd, ma
messedjez marty pottonkickin semlar:
1.4k · Feb 2017
Licing Home, 4
L/ yesterdave, I can picture Glaswegian Dave
w/ his Robert Plant locks (sebaceous oils hairoically
serving this roughsleeping ****), embroiled in t/ usual
skelartries of vagrants w/ SKOL arteries:
sherry, ******, needlesheroin shenanigans
& shenanipettycrime. Tucking into some horse
w/ no need f/ a pairofteeth, after a Specialbrew aperitif,
then some post 'iccup pisticuffs w/ crabby cabbies
down Tesco taxirank. They drove away, but he drank
& stayed & stayed & stayed. Dave
also got my grunger brother from another mother,
Koopa Trooper's lil' sis in t/ familyway at 14. Kudos
to underage Liz tho', being wooed
by such a tatterdemalionmaned skaggis,
Sideshow Boabbarneted smackonteur
- love is, after all, showbiz. Anyhoo, 1 time
Glaswegian Dave regaled me w/ a gouch down memorylane,
of riding pillion on a furshlugginer chromeboneshaker deathtrap,
revved by a fellow ******* porridgewog across
t/ Forth Bridge at breakneck Braveheart brums,
a Highlandwind afroing his Robert Plant mane
(preserved so remarkably,  I must reremark,  
by sebaceous oils, despite a lifetime
on t/ slabs & on t/ tiles), w/ a deathwrap
of Deadly Nightshade, belladonna sellotaped
under his armpit. Dave davulged that  t/ trick
was to rip that bellotaped selladonna
off t/ 2nd  you felt toxin titillate
t/ ******-attic sweet spot, or
'Ma hert widhae exploded, laddie, at 90 miles an oor!
Hootsmonseeyoujimmygroundskeeperwillieetc.'  

A typical Gen Xer deathwish teen at t/ time,
that oxterry devil's cherry deathcultmystery
& armpit raspberry to life, Atropic trip
on a murderbike sounded l/ a ride home to me.
If anyone considers 'porridgewog' racist, they really need to get a life.
1.4k · Apr 2017
The Last Word In Poetry
You can't choose what kind of poet you are.
Classroom or cult, laureate
or in the garret just for the hell of it.  
Mardy bard dangerous to know
or Cheese Poet, Volgon poet, Barry Kent.
Synaesthetic  Symbolist or Imagist
streamlining stanzas. Postmodern punner
or Romantic stunner-***-slummer.
Winherback onetimer or lyricynical
loverat roborhymer.  Syllable sentinal,
prosodic stresshead, tweak freak w/
iambic pentup rage & a rictus gaptoothed
nonictus. Or Beatnik bongo bard
whose Kerouachilles heel is itchy feet,
wanderlust metre, growing up to be protopunk
poet safetypinning syntax into blank, well,
pretty vacant verse. Poetryslam
champ, boisterous Banjo Byron
spouting professional confessional
McGouggherel. Or egotistical sublime
enjambing scars, obscurely immaculate
poete maudit peaking posthumously.

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

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

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

(but if angels should sing me to my rest.
I'll know I was the kind of poet noone read).
So should apocatitfortat of prayerpaganda foment
an elevatedsense of lowmorale in your atheist
breast, unlibtarded antineolibtard reader, ye
blessed rationalists who besmirch not
this middleagespreading universe of lurching
stars, either as some dingdongmerrilyonhighly dubious
monkish dongless dovemens' cote
(where a starver & deserter, Celestial Molester
& deistically teabreaking Gold Commander
incurs culpa lata from afar);  or for Mack Daddy Allah's
Carlsberg cathouse-***-Shalimar-garden-in-the-sky:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bless Yourself.
Weltuntergangsstimmung = 'apocalyptic mood', German
Zaqqum = a tree in Hell, Arabic
dugma = 'the button' suicide bombers press to detonate their payload , Arabic
Phainesthesia = from Greek phainein - "to show," phainesthai " - to appear", after Heidegger.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_3oOUfpdVY
wit laz Bermoodah shores n aqualurngs
werbah dem mer-jayhaydeens surfgunj
bur gud, en Beg Depp o fifday...urm, Ah ferget,
bur arnat day tire flate depthly gart wyett!
NoAh caint raywahnd waves geronimrawd
jayhard Jonahs wept enta Katreena Nams,
bur wiv dare-x urb dare-i-yeahs o
oil-leannes, Ah mane dem ay-leannes,
Saudi Raypublek Navy surge-jinn-sea
bay stumped hinda aye-bull! Ray Nothing, hay

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

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

n Guard Bless A Merry Cur.
then dubyacee pay(t)rolleum! Foker-
paced quanum quacks n rockitdarc huckstars
hadda Hellispointymonkies Caves cloaked,
kays Ah seez Cherrakee neckstump cherracoke
culler down Hubbahubba tellerscope
- shia myule ploomedge! NASA arta brownblark
tha jarks bowda Marslimbs flahin icescalp
marders ta Marz. Way know feshrahd frargs grok
wit raghaired tahdrahzers arn tarp Alp Arl
- wot dem French Frahs leddon? Shah, beg lung wharl  

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

smydum wit bremstun n gulldan sairep
frum Lyle's shack, till roobay doons ar killzone catsup
map, shellacked slaughty shades o shinola!'
Yessuh, behine me larka saddlesar,
tha Beg Pardna. Hez Wel lil grain galoots' dungs
juice fa Waryacht Wun, so judaz jars
** jive Hoostuns shadder arn Blue's lungs
kin snart tha Lard thruah Star Wahs harpoon!
Then downer Davy Crowkit's lockerroam,
1.2k · Dec 2016
Sanity Stallion (Lyric)
Failing for a stud to admit
but I ain't smooched no supermodels,
yet only a vacuous waif should hold me
coz I'm fragile.
Failing for a stud to admit
but I ain't no Snetrolhead
macho-canny Monaco mechanic:
baby, I can't drive.
And the thing's yet to be invented
I could fix.

A sanity stallion is born to be one
of the wirey winners
on the mundane furlong,
home straight existence.
A pancake by Findus?
Stallion won't be one.
I'm unfancied firm favourite for some
psychiatric knacker's yard!
Sanity stallion,
not Eeyore to the extreme.

Failing for a stud to admit I 'd forfeit
precious inch off my *******, swap for some
steady-as-she-blows frontal lobes
of a sanity stallion.
Failing for a stud to admit I can't keep
sharp objects at bay.
Suicidal nailbiter tiger
since her ***** became
cold shoulders, nork face of the Eiger.

A sanity stallion is a son-of-a-gun
for good kinda 'broodmares'.
He is a banker
on the fast track to
fair-to-middling existence.
Pancake by Findus? Stallion won't be one.
I'm unstabled firm favourite for some
psychiatric knacker's yard!
Sanity stallion,
not Eeyore to the extreme.

'Ere are, Eeyore,
he who heehaws last
heehaws haunted...
'Snetrolhead' = petrolhead + Snetterton, East Anglia's most famous  motor racing track.
'Ere are' = East Anglian dialect
1.2k · May 2017
Purple Gerberas
I went on a date with Abigail from Wales,
now real housewife of Harleston this Belle of Bridgend,
who vacated the valleys for marriage that failed.
Via loveless POF we met in Diss, Betjeman's
'dimmest place of all'.  From her suitor's clammitt
mushroomed blooming cliche from Norwich Market,
which had strived in stuffy, sunny carriage for survival,
but doughty purple gerberas shed not a petal.

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

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

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

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

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

She didn't see offthepeg patriarch to patch a family
in me, dressinggowned putz Diazepampering broken
calon now. No Ant to her Cleo, Gavin to her Stacey
- wherefore the chirpsing 'bout cwtching, softlyspoken
soul-selfies swapped in aprication of darkling embrace?
Abigail just blanks my calls; messages soliloquise in cyberspace.
To so much heart-mulch I bet binned bouquet now rots.
Purple gerbera wheel of fortune landed on she-loves-me-not.
1.1k · Feb 2017
Swanky
A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
2 Ls in Vivaldi font ported to snowblindness
(hierotippexed), who glid down
the wrong discipline, along the Stygian
stave of the  Atonality headlining
after the Tracheotomy of the Spheres.

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

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

A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
aristocratic mullets scalped & mobsurfing
a revolutionary river of le grand non lavage.
O cob & pen powercouple are giraffe
dove ducks, to the Sovereign as prosaic
as pigeons are to oiks of Eros, me & my bird.
accompanying illustration: http://chirpydirges.co.uk/swanky/
How can I not cross the Brexit box
when the Leave campaign
is stationed at 'Lysander House',
Catbrain Lane, Bristol?
Less the Brex Pistol, bad European,
more like if you're a-meing,
my vote's in the bag!
And if you're me-howing and you know it,
mogito purrgo sum, Rene Descats
(felisopher more infelicitously
in a bag).
This poem makes more sense, well, actually makes sense when you're aware my real Christian name is Lysander - 'Camden Cobain' is an ironically achingly hip username for HP.
There was a balloon called Claude,
who was more than bored.
Bored...
and all the rest:
poor Claude was depressed  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O whether Claude will rise or fall,
does not really matter at all,
for should he again feel so pfft and low,
he's learned up is the only way to go.
Illustrations: http://chirpydirges.co.uk/claude/
1.1k · Dec 2016
Jimjampyres (Lyric)
Hushhhh, let me let you in
on a secret: when Mummy tucks us in
for the night, we're not in for the night
- gap between ledge & limb, we leap it,
springheeled imps!
Moonlite's orphans in batcaped dressinggowns,
we skive the sheets. Lil' devils shimmy down
to a midnite playground.

Shushhhh, tonite we hunt
Lady Barbie from Dolltown Abbey.
She'll never get a crick in it, but I won't gob out
my plastic fangs at her plastic gregory.
'S dangerous game getting mislaid during play,
Lord Ken's action men haven't got the bits for a stakeout.

Mummy & Daddy don't believe in us,
but we don't want Daddy & Mummy's blood.

Whoooosh, from foldedup towers
of 'Twilight' duvet covers,
Castle Ovalstein we glide! Bat ballet,
but not to do battle with
wiener werecubs, rugface rats.
No, our supernatural dustup
is with the real Lords of the Night:
yellow peril, Bananas in Pyjamas.

Don't touchhhh me, Van Helsing,
you lay a garlicky glove on me
& I'll dob you in to Social Services'
nightline. Just because I'm a vampire
doesn't mean I'm not a ******.
Boris & Igor are my teddybears,
disinterring the toybox,
Paddington Burke & Winnie-the-Hare, yeah!

Mummy & Daddy don't believe in us,
but we don't want Daddy & Mummy's blood.

I am a jimjampyre, jimjampyre,
vanna drink your cherryade!
Am a jimjampyre, vanilla vampire!
I vont to drink strawberry shake!
1.0k · Jan 10
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.
Nugatory what droog boogie of Bonn's mardy maestro
thunderbubbled thru my spongey drums:
my shelllikes ***** not on ceruminous ceremony.
But daydreams' iridescent blackout in balneal
Beeth-o-zen (Classic FM whackedup less hazardously
in nearest unlobtailed room) were blacketty blinks
to the obvious, till edge of blissful ignorance
was popped by whitephosphorus pop logic, like I was
jaywalking Bambi or in Nervous Sleep before
the quixotically compensatory gleam
of a blind biddy's bingo clink. & even the jink of light
in the bread & jam nurdle, hameojoff bead
a blindman's viscid jitterbug  might frictionfleam,
as he finds himself grindingupagainst
unclarified erogenous surface foresaid
chingoblinked blindbiddy presents - even those phots
don't bop like the knowledge that had me new shrieker
of legendarily lavating Greek truthseeker's
'Eureka!'

It's not that my muse's nose mused upon how humiliating
hydrophobes never helps - their manky tang like a monkey's ting
will w/ smullying only honk bleaker. Nope,
the Light I cite midkittyinaknapsacklick is the venting
of each abulically untroated vote against
medievangelist billionare brats
& their weaponised superstition
- O nullifidian tippingpoint
had me tripping anointed! Inanimate blaze of this Revelation
was effin' fluorescent, Nootestament unheavenly bright
as Baron D'holbach's baulking at the holy,
whose pioneering apostasy was ThusspakeZarafrustration
at our Being too betafingered
to **** God's wispy wrists w/ William of Ockham's Razor
like it was the Duke of Nukem's bazooka.
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