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

Sue Townsend, The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole

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

Dylan Thomas, Ballad of the Long-legged Bait
dint have
        much ta do
        holdthe handsof
            a brew
        with holdwith
        inhumanityorhumanenuzz then. Was a whilescene when        

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

         Tho' i pitied my envy, i envied all pity. Lacked traffic, 'adno truck
            wiv the dyadic drives of Lurve's
        't'rrific'-lie tragicfucks. As inample as some sparrow's worldle a van
                                                                ­                       squished,
            only passport my vanquished
                   sake did scramble for is Charity Sun.  Howev' with Cee, find-
        ing simply the  –Ing and And of Light is Touch, is Light's
        sister outreacher, not one of her northernising gifts, such as
                        Ground Ing's nielloware slate.
        Becalmin' shiner, silen' lancer o' chalets and hovels, Charitysun en-
            abled me tatravel see
        me in the secondsightofmesunandCeesun
            - a complete pair o' Suns! Ssunned clean
        noonchallenger's nonchalance outta mucky Mr. Meon Mee,
                                                                ­ manstress
                        monster of Of. Ofbull! Burdamn-
        tion-***-burdenption by my beaming bird abated, now i'm
                mostly like, but much less than, a man
        - in ways lovetheCeejayway shifts. For more morenow now. An' just
                 more than just more than more adjusted than
        th'averidge averisky averageful loving bully - 'tis a tizzer man
                forgetting ta forgetrid of mighty flighty *****,
        sure all his falls were stairstaged fights. Mightbes smitebe-
For CJ
Fulfillmentis fullfattle, forfull fatheds and fatalcattle,
a fatty lotto o' goodpoints;
andonthetroubjectofpoints: point of demon ted conceit.
Summum bonum essentialdeath's
outercrockhoary innerchildlocked talons
arloike rewroites' rewroi'in,
rites of rereaddin that overplace me my overtheplace
all inside up. Stated the tooth clawly in my own woods

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

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

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

But like weatherfield's supermakeit-
up, i'm  'freshco' atthemo,
so chase me death ducky, butch with pendingperenniality
in the playground was i.
And dare tadoomme an injustice too tony bairface, lice's already astoundingly
enfranchised by Cee,
4 CJ
So i soseldombreak
i maybe snatched - bye - by the sight
of the tartanskunk i'll contribba beaut - oh it dealt
a scotch eggy. And a newt
estimate too, an overstate-
ment in hoverin' state uponviaduct viapond
- behold the hydro-
patetic hindmo of a jumping jesus-
chris' liz.,
shirking submersivesilversurface
in roundstrides o' looneytunezoom-
ingpins, holyclappers!
i've also rarefied a sweat  

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

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

These be humanconditions, infinaturally: new lessenings
of leprous repetition, retroventure, anticlock rides,
petering out of poopedpetuity, pootling int'ultimuck revultimacy,
till we're nothing's nearests, evenuntoers'  ow!riginal
**** and caboodle. Peop'll beep and bleep and bleed peeled
unrealer and unrealer till every person's removal
when sent too asleep by bedicine of dr.havelds kipman
- hospitalised liein last sting allthelivelongday dig in,
th'endup down mouthfeel for a moving noodle,
4 CJ
europaroma roams 'hole o' ol' erf
in a sick bay's shower.
i joust, pasang, auteur...
Less there's
emergency paddock on a padang in deepest penang
where a poet might enhang up and enhangover
a bullshouty parangular
gush eng. gu cheng brain.
For shame! Don't stampede labyrinthine,

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

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

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

Under ozone ox id, hate
as drowsy and bizarre as prayer - by my dearest gods it was stale
as christianity! o my Dear Guard
now receives my love for Her, like a safe butting not a southern 'But...'
It'll be this love of recency even
in the Whenthingareasevenasfailedeverbes
- when we'll all even relieved, ex-ever,
halcyon as hay, wover' like wickerbulls
for weak bulwarks 'low an oilspulyied welkin,
when savaging soil on the seeds' side streamlets in like steamjets
of a spring unexperienced,  loads same subsight foul,
and we're all o ta outer nothingwith nothingin
annihilated without somuch as heroic overandout,
like those 'dimanches de décembre'
when i could not care for life and death's raw hide 'n' seek - i'll remem-o:
Love Came Thru Outta Darkness, that's Light Of What Was Not To Be
So Bad Much Longer.
4 CJ
Asifin rectiserial devotion of robots' rows,
one of those innigglable enigmatronic joes
too technical ta takeanickel,
was lice wed to bridewelling
industry of automating.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

will-ta-argue, that had for so long kept
my will arguing,
arguing with the ground
about my grounds forarguing withthe wither-
ing, stareswallowing, stair-
faced ground, no groundparent but wildneighbourhoodwatcharenakillingfloors
of hugboun-
ties time's toughlove chainsawed
offasifwith fredwardwolverscissorkrugerine,
morsal handshake a-hanching.
Mortallowmatic morsels of digital farewells  
removed by cornhead and rural roomba
of chutzpah purer than a gandermooner's,
Her mower the answer to my metalvegetal pinocchioprayers,
Her mower the overgrower of my loverphobia
and nova sower of dingleydells,  fluffy squelchy seasons,
vegetarianovourous forests of vitalism
and lurching lovers' poncey meadows - real ones.
4 CJ
tight as tartan turpsnudgers' pursestrings
be proverbially bound,  titely as such
   stucious rufous stereotypes succumb
          ta brite lutes' letheanthems,
        lushbrutes' 'Lemme atums
               o' shanter!' Or tight as a sequentialbumperoffer's
tape mufflers
o coCeeness is! Is i did as i did as i didun needtanot let Her come
so instant-aye nearuz, wusso instant tame me
us that it's weird, but neverso weird it's too near
ta me. i wanna bethe darkest mother-
****** me when i grow ups and downs,
with the hardest core, found
a strop shire by the banks of the
river viccissippi of my tude.
Didbut i dodon't knowbe-
cause She's

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finely striped belly, tough as a tygoness, CJ yanks  
me like i'm Her jackpot, baby'sarmedbandit,
wags lucky lice like willie lumpkin's lugs,
-  no fairystale ballaxe or unporny story, between my legs
when She's happywith... Meow-
gasm? i growlgasm,
i'm that twaggish kind of cheshire ****, whizzed
thruol' churchorcheese toothshowin' carrolliannmog's insanityquiz.
Hearing voices, multiplechoices,
4 CJ
me and the Cee metat dreambodytherapy, She
speaks in Oursleep. my Real Dear
zeys, 'mmmm... Fearof theedge...
zzzz...'S onlyedgeof thefear...',
She wants me ta wake up. This may the eighteenth
notat my madeup wake,
where i attend dod-
dypollened, or more gen. doddypollpothead, withan eighth and a teenth.
Was with Her,

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

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

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

i hold violently, for Her grabbers are rare, aren't grabby.
Thru peavyhetting i'll be their encraggler, for our chiro-
genit'-two-guild o' two intershakin', who felt gilt  - new guilt'd be Youless.
We forged ******* gaunt-
lets ta slap the washingup, ******* armour nitid too tight for
the ghost of love ta infiltrate. Is the isn'there
instant Ceeghoes?  Who ghest this ghost isn't e'en pearly juxtaposed
'gainst great invalid vanilla measurement,
th'indefinite whole ghost in bloodyicecreambelievers' reali gioust beliefs?
Me, who lie if in Ceelessness, coz Hands
thatdo dishes even outshine angelicorpses
only as aeviternal as pictor'al citadel of god's milkteeth,
Hers - mine do something completely disherrant
with mildew fairy liquorice.
4 CJ
Neither love nor psychiatry
got tricks or tenacity to transfigure me
into a drug-free butterfly.
If life and the pursuit of liberty
are such good ****, why aren't I enticed
into cold turkey chrysalice?
If I made it past the switchboard, got my minute with Raj Persuad,
I'd say I am more habit than man coz I was ill-starred
- addiction's but one player at tapioca table of my failures,
and I've never changed for the better before.
not old flame phoenix burned his partridge ******* off;
not the prodigal son soon his patriarch's boss;
not the artist formerly known as Vincent Van Frog
obits tongued into  prince of avant-garde old rot;
not the Clark Kent who transpires scion of Krypton,
and when he goes cross-eyed, does his own laser eye-corrections;
not **** duckling whose **** gets worn to the bone
thru later over-exposure as a midlife crisis swan;
not bad egg that makes good under the yoke of kizmet,
blossoms into KFC bargain bucket innit;
not the kid who's cuffed 'n' cuffed whilst Childline's engaged,
yet still eschews the Cycle of Abuse - it's Satan's baton-change!
So wherefore drug-free butterfly that hatches
en route to a dope-kickin' Damascus?
Daren't unfold a flutter I'd hover even
over lefthand downstroke of the 'u' in 'u-turn'.
No re-entry to mentor here, civic harumpher,
straightandnarroristocrat whose bile is haute catarrh,
pillock of the community!
Coz we crooked men only know the way in crooked miles,
don't deserve jeers from Jesus or Jeremiah Kyle,
or the one they call 'Jerryjerry'.
Now, wings of new leaves, one's potential papilionaceous
is natural high they push at Narcotics Anonymous,
but chemical schlemiels relapse coz losers can't be cured
- ain't snapped my fingers and been less crap before!
not black sheep who scrubs up Baa-barack O-baa-bama
(or even your sentimentalest sweater, knitted by your
                                                           deadest granma);                                    
not this summer's surprise cult hit,
tho' the critics at the preview concurred and had a kip;
not the Strangeways yo-yo who winds up his Folsom blues,
and credits his reformation to the kindness of screws;
no poindexter who in Freshers' week scarce partook,
but fast forward,  four-eyed ***'s Fonzie on Facebook;
not aurum de stercore success-story like the fable
of the goose 'bout to be cooked who lays a golden cable;
not the Chinese Rock star who lives past 27
- Grim Reaper Grammy outrocks rehabby ending.
So wherefore drug-free butterfly's eclosion
into denial or Eden, on wings 12 Steps map-pattern?
But I'm a no-show imago, cobwebbed cocoon,
monged a teenage pod of sloth to postpone more misfortune.
Her name is Maureen, born in 1940,
she's the sexmachine who reeks of *****.
Mr.Kipling, PG Tip' drawstring;
for **** she recycle beefdripping.
I wasn't born when she was virginal,
she **** and she swallow, just not Werther's originals.

I like to bend my nanny's friend.

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

I like to bend my nanny's friend.

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

I love to bend
my inflexible friend.

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

I like to bend my nanny's friend.

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

I like to bend my nanny's friend.

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

I love to bend
my inflexible friend.
me & my bae we met 6tn
wot i z woz wot r u werin
she txt bak crox n jeggins
inbetwn my toes thers webbin
wrds paint sugapix she woz etchasketchin
erotigger far from fetchin
but i h8 2 c a norfuk grl goin beggin

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

me & my bae we met 6tn
so u hv my blessin
2 keep yr fones swtchd  on @ our weddin
wher arnt evlyn is 6tn the rite revren
who is 6tn mary magdalen
up 2 her ol trix agen
tho she art in heavn
netwk w/ major connex probs amen
I don't drink & I don't smoke.
I don't snort yogurt
& I never get my oats.
Don't like a lil' joke
w/ the commonfolk
- got no strength,
so I need one hope:
got a length of rope,
good ol' length of rope
I keep at the back of the wardrobe.

Cheat a cruel God,
coz you're mentally scarred.
An escape pod,
outta jail card.
Ghost eyes of glass,
lost marbles in the yard
- ain't no waterworks from waxworks
at Madame Tussauds!

Behind my polyester,
behind her nylon,
ain't no witch &
there ain't no lion.
Ain't no suit gonna
maketh me a man,
or broaden my shoulder
like Alexis Colby's!
Foetal pose
in Emperor's new clothes,
accessorising only
w/ a length of rope,
long overdue
nuchal cord  
I keep at the back
of the wardrobe.

Wrote my note,
said I felt like Job
when Lucifer had a
flutter with the Lord,
'cept my faith broke.
So I tried to choke
lump in my throat,
but knot went nope.
Jobsworth in white coat
confiscated my rope,
but I still got the cord
on my acute ward robe.
Minstrel dumbstruck in the mizzle.
All romances yield their September.
Atavistically wistful,
the horizon ate my ancestors.

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

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

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

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

No modestly moulting future tense:
life is a winter of autumnal adolescence.
Abscissions are but the frondescence
of the laurels of autumn w/ a vengeance.
Would she make me feel it's ok just being me,
the greatest gift another human can bestow?
How could I ever repay thee?
In spades: I'm gonna havta love ya  till I prove
perfection is a predicate of you to you,
perfect darling Babydoll,
last lady left with a  ladylike soul.
Where are ya?

I have lived a million years,
I have lived 10,000 lives.
Grey eminence to sun kings
and I've been the Prince of Slime (100 times).
I was Duncan Macleod's wingman until he died
- my 1st dates are legion, Space WLTM Time.
Lyrics to 'Sympathy For The Devil'
can't hold a  candle to my travels.
The sherpas of Jupiter
and bedouins of the solar winds
led me where they could  
and then I left them far behind.
When titans sat on my NHS specs,
flew my ship 1000 miles purblind
just to be that starman
who crashlanded on your planet,
my Babydoll to find.  

Bukowski says love's a dog from hell,
Eros as Cerberus.
Yin and Yang need counselling
from J-Dogg and the G-Nius.
Security stands between us
and the Age of Aquarius.
But dontcha know  whole horrorshow lasershow
will after all transpire divine,
once Babydoll's and my lifetimes align.

Jebus pace his cloud, checking his watch night and day.
John Lennon's like a Black 'n' Decker in his grave.
The gyres of samsara creak out screams in vain.
Cherubs in their choppers scour the astral plain.
But bang to crunch the cosmos will be peachy cool,
once Babydoll's and my souls and bodies fuse.

Shedloads of solar systems, can't list 'em,
and I've surfed the centuries
- here my Cinders is, cleaning up catshit!
Babydoll, geddoff your knees!
Dispel dismal dreams of mummy ****
and losing yourself in Marbs;
there's dust on my jacket from battlefields
older than the notion of Love
(what remains of worlds
where the only way was Mars).

Like the Lorax in a hoverchair,
thru the last black hole in despair,
Stephen Hawking typed 'sigh' then the sinking ship
of the Age of Starlight he did quit.
And on the coattails of his chemtrails,
Babydoll and I, off we sail
into the sunset of the event horizon,
catch the Face of God with its flies undone.

Babydoll, it's a mundane Monday,
talc'd bra and gender gap pay.
But on walk to work, silvery alleyway beckons:
a DeLorean from D7.
Spacetime schmutz springing gullwing disperses
- voila! Your Mr.Right out of all the multiverses
steps out to save you from the end of life as you know it
and the continuation of life as you know it.

I have scanned animal, mineral and aerosol,
and when I wish upon a star, it's for Babydoll.
Sisyphean stars like rolling stones snowball
more space. Starcrossed like Romeo and Spidergwen,
engagement ring of unobtainium
will only fit perfect darling Babydoll,
last lady left with a ladylike soul.
Where are ya!
J-Dogg and the G-Nius = (Brit. slang) jocular pseudo-hiphoppy  monikers for the UK talkshow host, Jeremy Kyle, and his head counsellor, Graham 'the Genius' Stanier.
Sphere of spleen on the sofa,
my life is going nowhere,
either there or a dystopia.
Paralympian doper,
paralytic coper,
professional loafer,
semipro croaker.
Looked in the mirror,
the day is getting nearer
I give George Roper
good run for his lira.
ITV3, life now I see
thru prism of a sitcom from the 70s.

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

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

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

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

Better than I ever hoped, you & I spooned up in a bubble,
them latchkey demons can't dent our snuggle-spubble.
Better than I ever hoped, curled up into a ball with you.
Better than I ever hoped, a bubble is a ball for two.
St. George flag, Celtic band.
All Greek to him his Chinese ideogram.
Ersatz Essex Everyman, white van tan.
O twice as alive looks the life unexamined!

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

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

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

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

Dumb fighter, dumb lover,
have cheeky chappie psychopathy

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

He’s quite a bad plumber,
but the wife kept  his number.
But you can trust Baz.
Good Ol’ Baz, *** *******.
Y’know, Baz?
Baz the Plumber?
No, not that
Baz the Plumber.
The other Baz, yeah. No, Baz the Plumber.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
Take my mother-in-law, please…
Knock knock. Who’s there? Banana.
This is how I feel:
like an old, bad joke.

Demineralised tears, salty chinhairs.
Watching the girls go by
from a blanketed bathchair.
This is how I feel:
like a sad old man.

I can’t play guitar .
I can't shoot up smack.
I can’t  position, point and blast the shotgun.
This is how I feel:
like a one-armed Kurt Cobain.

Carcrash *****. Gross gunt.
***** like the Predator’s face.
Vertical smiley with lips of eviscera
Francis Bacon might attach on messenger.
This is how I feel:
like a fat **** ****.

You haven’t called me.
You don’t care like you used to.
You don’t care at all, but why should you?
How you feel is how I feel,  
I empathise entirely.
But you get to dump me,
I have to annihilate me.
Life is so much betternow
I've accepted it neverwill be good,
Goodnow I don't expect to everfeel
Good Enough
to understand the stuff of Good Enough
enough to bluff Good Enough
good enough
for Good Enough
to be good enough
to make itself known
like Lady Godiva packin' heat.
Life & I are evenstephens,
now I'm resigned even in dreams' reruns
to my gaze [email protected]'stootsies
puddlepruned, even tho' she's goodenough
to point her piece between my eyes.

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

Life & I are not oddstods anymore,
our loggerheads are logged under the heading
'@timbernecks', now I begrudge the Good News
Jesus died for me slightly less. Indeed, he has my permission  
to perish for me a lot more
than a month of Good Fridays, make his fraudulent ultimate sacrifice
999x like Deadpool's cat.
It was my vague sin
that was the straw as cumbersome as a camel's corpse,
giving his shoulder the gyp that would do for [email protected]
Despondent in a sanguine fashion
about being the real Christkiller, but that's the way I roll
with the punches of scapegoated Jews.
I find strength in the fact I will bend
like brownnoses on brownkneeses until I break
like a nirvana trump in the wilderness.
I find comfort in the knowledge
this state of mehvana promises
bathos that will detach my detached smile,  
my teeth's tensegrity jerichoed
unto a lateritious tundra
of important life lessons
in eight noble kickings.
I find peace in the realisation
that the soughs & squalls of selfimprovement,
the right noises, will be squeezed out
by a Martian sandstorm
of depersonalising selffulfilling prophecy.

Snakedance in bits, supine in pieces,
I dree my weird as derobed yogi of debris,
Frank Siddhartha.
And now, as tears subside,
may I say, not in a shy way,
more, much more than this,
I've learned the hardway
is always evertofall inlove.
So take it like a man, like Desperate Dan
creamcowpied up his stubbly ironbutt
on Brokeback Mountain
- on all fours first, then consent.
It's for the best I bookmark then bin
my Mills & Boon bucketlist,
won't bitterly tinker anymore of my own
crash & vanity published
anthologies of that same selfeffacing joke,
stalled into endlessly reinventive selfharm
like bumnote Bowie with chameleon's block.
Same same same punchline always a Borderline
love lyric bickering with Fate
who cannot keep a

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

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

nothing should fall harsher
than a groan clown,
who's tried, goshknows,
to turn his look of the ****** upsidedown,
but never been caught with his
Calvin Klown pants down,
unforgiving of his own
[email protected] the foolharder
in front of his witheringly notlooking
straightman, always a beautiful woman.
So it's cool, baby, cool,
that my prayer for love
goes the way of all such beggingletters to Big Daddy Nonsequitur:
Sans God & sans gondola
& sans protest & thus intakes of breath,
I'll doggydoodoopaddle thru whatever Venice of doggy dysentery
Fate follows thru for me.  
Besides, that such an inexcrabapple stain as I,
such a scalding skidmark after Curry Night in Hell,
could entertain the lie limerence mightn't be misplaced after all
sticks out like the Crucified One, or the septic thumb
of a dolescum King Kong
with bananarhoeaencrusted  
******'s blind of a giant's fingernail.
The very notion is radge
as an ad for an accomplice in a crimeagainstcreation,
fraping the Churchshop Facebookpage
between the tearduct placement chugolas chasing
the Big Society penny for heathen dreamcatchers
& other therapeutic detritus of alky arts & spakkrafts.

I've faked fierce fatalism
to protect protective pessimism
that I see nothing offsong
or fishy in iffy Lurpak heirapparent who saw sense:
Death is the skull of an old mucker.
So stomp like a hungover dinosaur,
do the Stalin shuffle over bodies
( in the singularpringular in this case, Josef)
- one impaled on a nailbed left on a shelf,
flatter than a swizz Schweppes,
or pressed flower some cuckolded colonel
relinquished on the Eurasian steppe.
For you tread on my dreams.
Or at least their autumnal smithereens,
crackling like a staticwauled chorus of Karma Chameleon,
now you tread on my red, gold & greens.

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

I have engaged private security firms
in my every Englishcountrygarden.
I've cemented broken glass atop the rainbow.
If there is even the remotest chance I might fall in love with you,
get lost.
I always pictured
angels as a sort
of apperceptive helicopter,
Kryptonian psychiatrist
or interdimensional fallguy.
But mute angel of mercy
suppressing suspiration,
who withheld their number
& was on the line for
seconds at 7
a.m. this morning was you,
I knew
it, checking I was alive
after my BPD jive.

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

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

fond-to-neutral farewell in your
plaint. You have no
right to resist my other
worlds, clam up on our orca argot.
I am your Stalker God,
you my orca pod
who checked I was alive
after my BPD jive.
I love you so much I'll leave you on hold.
how can you resist
an interpersonal terrorist?

I don't know what it means.
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

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

- eureka!
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.
My soul's a lil' lizard,
too lilylivered to flick its head
out from under pockmarked
rockslide of my flesh.
Tracking the way things shoulda been,
my Pyrrhic quarry past twentyyear.
Bounty on my head only Time will collect;
wanna be old timer? Cry silver viper tears.

I don't ask for much, just a cactus crutch.

As a child I was a wildman,
but needed to convalesce
amid the tumbleweed titans
and sirensong of crickets.
An oasis in the desert's in the desert nonetheless/
an oasis in the desert is still an oasis.
The scorpions are my new friends,
coz all my old friends were scorpions.

I don't ask for much, just a cactus crutch.
I don't ask for much,
just to be a buzzard for your love.
If you've got issues, if you've got baggage:
disadvantaged, disabled, disturbed, damaged.
If you've got special needs, not just sexually...
If you wear bottletop specs, come see me.

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

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

The psyche of a child, the physique of a woman
- c'mon, Judge, w'unt you find that confusin'?
There was a balloon called Claude,
who was more than bored.
and all the rest:
poor Claude was depressed  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O whether Claude will rise or fall,
does not really matter at all,
for should he again feel so pfft and low,
he's learned up is the only way to go.
I've got no interest in bungeejumping.
I've got no interest in seeing Venice.
I've got no interest in niteclubbing.
& I must be in zen coz I don't care
what zen is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before domestic bliss cult of mutual monomania
decrees we lovers shrug our heartshaped shoulders
& to closed loop of googooeyes go couple-cloistered,
I'll do the world one more favour, vote Labour.
I ****** the blood outta ma woman.
I ****** the blood outta ma hoss.
I ****** the blood outta ma pard.
Wanted dead or alive or Nosferatos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Founding father whose prairie
piranha legacy's red necks of genocide.
I'm only paleface the night cannot buck,
but the rest still **** each other's blood.
'And when was this? I dunno, I dunno:
like everything else, twenty years ago.' - August Kleinzahler

Whosis slunk next to the rastamagnet
dj booth, in a limabeanhued suit
jacket, limabean sleeves rolledup to
deploy albino ancons for jostling.
My ****** lungs ached; gluttonous Venomised
pelicanbills. Cig o' no mercy, cig of life.
Serpivolent smoke is nicocreaming
ceiling of this dive Dasein dosses in.
Unrequiting snoutcloud of her chuffing
form siffles thru her mousy enamel.
'Light reflecting booster technology',
advertising Boswellox, scents her hair.
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.
O those farouche salad nights following
swotting up in the humid Octagon!
Male Black Widow Complex, th'always boinging,
lidded by lemony orange lager.
I crashed Crasherkid frabble, rocked to
DJ Shoppinghour feat. MC Niche Jah.
My Sax Pustules & Dead Kinnocks LPs
accusingly mouldered in my heart.
Crasherkids twatted then, dated now, now
grooveriders haggard. But time was the thud
of arterial Cherry7up
was the dub of their youthful BPM.
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.
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.
& in the goth club, cadavolescent,
guylinered Xennials listened to
Placebo, but poo-pooed manginas.
Identi90s: genres, not genders.
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.
'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.
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.
Whosis, tattie-bogie of the floor,
turned Turok w/ liebestorschlusspanik.
But his limabean lines are jejune, even to
zirconia Zsa Zsas on the zhelf.
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.
'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.
Simian, simulacrum, something for
the weekend, sir? Or are weekends just for
something before ip dip dogshit
******* ******* silly *** meet the kids then what?
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!
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!
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.
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').
'Taxi Driver' cinematography,
neon printcest of clubland signs dimmens.
Pick up your tuttifrutti braindamage
- time to go home, hungover twichildren.
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

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!'
I’d need a JCB to prise
teastain from the bottom of this
greasy spoon heirloom. When it comes
to shitholes, I’m no Sherlock Holmes,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And when I am Long John Goner,
will the loved one or do-gooder
who washes my dishes ponder
how grotty things got with horror?
Deathreat Man sends undiplodobermans,
battalions of bogus gasmans.
And catflapaccess flexithieves
and doorstep deathreat deputies.
But his girl’s a barrister, his boy’s a GP
- them he sent to schools with fees!
To Fiona Bruce & Nick Ross,
he sent a tauntalising text to abase
Auntie’s telltale-a-vision (even just a sighting)
for baffled bacon infronta the forensic nation.
But of course it never was readonair.
Deathreat’s text untraceably shared
how his shuteye’s peekless and squeakless,
a most rejuvenating dip in dreamless
deltawave deepness,
despite the fact that organised crime
is for Deathreat Man panem et cirque combined.
Deathreat Man sends jazzcops, knacker of the knockingshops,
vicesquad packin' - undercover, but they ratted themselves out
and away with hamradioreceiving wired rainmacs and hamacting.
Deathreat Man 10-4'd the interference from Kojaks with Kodaks
in their underdaks, who'll win no lifeimitatingart bitpart in 'The Bill'.
But Deathreat Man can't coast and cotch it yet, coz Deathreat Mansion is still apugwash with picaroon scrut DVDs, e.g. 'Captain Mike Oddpeace and Ye Comeliest, Wenchiest Trickarse Skanks of Albion',
'United Nations of T'n'A: Resolution 69247',   'Celeb Gilfs,
Vol 11: the Royal Jubblies' and other semenal skinema
fuzzboxoffice hits, tho' Deathreat's sno-res copies
will have you hitting the fuzzy box.
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.
Deathreat Man sends a Sierraleonian Ferrerorocher
to his marshal michelle, his mole
moll, his fluff on the fuzz:
illegally venal PC ***** Flatfootsie - so she’ll
play ball, backhanders, backhandjobs and all.
Flatfootsie underoversees CCTV like she’s
Sheriff Lobotomy, or even vidisects the visual
evidence of deathreats with Traceyandsharon
salon talons, the ten cherry shanks she clacks
on discodesks when in her slaggy Saturnite mufti.
As if her own excrescences th’ersatz ungues
of corrupt crimson  seem a (nail) extension of her verybeing,
for deceptive inspector, *****, has jinkyfingers.
Undaunted by fiddliness of splicing reels into loopholes
by hand, she slits out the pigscreens’
footage of fingerage of her ice daddy
up to his neckindeathreats.
***** improvises excriminating scissors outta
acryliclaws, unbeknownst to her nailtechnician,
Chelina Aisleyne, who had only aimed to add glam
when she nailgunged simulacral scarlet scratchers
onto welltrimmed kerotose halfmoons
of PC *****’s manacleslappers.

Trim, well, copoffable copper’s protectionist projectionist,
seenoevil CCTVJ, censoring what would lead to sentencing
with synthetic skazsthetic free edges on her nonreg rednails,
a deflector’s cut to rewindscreenwipe redhands,
Deathreat Man’s, who only got red on his hands
- ah diddums - coz he went a bit Joe Q.Bananas
on a latepayer with the front to doubt he was a
chartered usury piranha.
PC Flatfootsie sends the plodfathers
a cassette of cold leads, recordings she’s shorn
of the closedcircuit cameo of local beastlinessman,
Geoffrey Deathreat, and his misdeeds whichwouldhavebeen
the main feature. However, *****’s not been sent
clinically criminally Marioncrane by amore
an attorney might mould into a sobstory.  No,
a diamond as big as a Travelodge
is her helluva healthy illgotten gain.
( tho’ the badgirlinblue would still be green
were she aware Chelina Aisleyne’s
chosen dispenser of handcream
and facecream
was same one Geoffrey's been shaking vigorously
since he was about thirteen).
Deathreat Man can send any remonstrative racketee’s
any wannabe nonpayee’s haveago guts
south on the Blue Funk Express
to disembark at the dunghampers: the dread
leverage of a descriptive deathreat
should not be underestimated.

Since the days of ***** Harry Goutang, the first & last
uprightish police primate, BC bizzy, Donkeykong cop,
who with his magmapult Cro-Magnum 44 cowed
cavesinos of dinosaur gamblers...
Since this Stig of the Precinct/ apeman bacon/
jurassic pork/ furry tester rozzer
was forerunner primeval of Robertpeel,
tho' forerunner like a ferraritestarossa, policing Dinosaurgambia
with such subhuman stamina t’was  prehistoric Dockgreen...
Since the heymillenia of thunderlizard underworldfigures
was policed extinct, ***** Harry Goutang’s rule of law  
mistook for marksman meteor with thizard hitlist...
Since this judge, jury and dryopithecus,
like a hoopla hotshot snagging his swag,
immobilised the lochnecks of sauropods notso
naturally nixkeeping as one might assume,
with leafy lassoes of paleoliceline vine
and knuckledragginglylong arms of the law
(much to the13metresuproar of brachiosaurs
breakin’ laws like scaley Arthurdaleys)...
O since the dawn of crime,
in the land before doing time began: threats and deaths
have been the linguafranca of all creatures,
all encroachers on the turf of Muthafucka Nature.
For whether fists o’ fury or outlawry or in the discharge of duty,
they'll all knock you into the middle of deep history!
Baadass and badge both bailiffs for that debitum naturae
if lesser debts Deathreat Men determine due them aren’t paid,
because violence begets victory: that is the primal precedent.
’Swhy deathreats are sent with Nature’s own compliments!
And why Deathreat Man don’t senda
second deathreat.  
Man, or mansized jellyfish in a mansized mousuit;

woman, whether tussage worth her weight
in Mexicanvalium (beauty one could only get down the aisle
Weekendatbernie'sstyle, or the average ****** roughage,  
or subject of sexistpigs’ Bernardmanning pannage, that is
going to bed with Lilymarlene and waking up with Lilysavage;

child, even preop sprog behind abdominal
shoji of a WAGgabe, who’ll havta snip her Visacard
once fee for the unneccaesarian has cleared,
and sordid sleb sawbones has (short-)cut  bulbousbonced
bambino well clear of that camino real, her vaingina.
and snipped la vida cord;

pensioner such as Horace Nuhipkiss or Florence Flujabbberwock,
hardly benchpressioners...
But none are exempt:

a good deathreat puts the fear
of the living ******* bejeezus into any demographic
(except those heavyhearted light travellers
on a 1waytrip to that Swiss
departurelounge, but
Dignitasclinic has skinted them out anyway, Skip!).
Deathreat Man sends thanks
to Officers Cholesterelli and McNana
at the Ohioklahomissourizonachusetts Sheriff’s
departmentstore defenderate (or whichever 2bit
anencephalic granite bigot unit had
‘International War on Terror’ in its
mallcopalyptic intray by error).
coz they’ve given Deathreat Men free reign
to… C’mon, do I havta sayitagain,
it’s even in his ****** name!
For those donuthole omphaloskeptics and
gumbo java guzzlers, stateside jumbo gava
ordered tithatted Brit counterparts
on a wild keystonecob of a goosechase,
extracting Omar Khan Sharif tariff,
which isn't a tipoff but the tip of a nightstick
up the schnozz of a Londonstani lad
on his way to Blackchapel mosque in the smog.
The Macpherson Report a spoilsport for melaninintolerant
bobbies, but they can still cosh the chocolate God
right outta Banglajabis ’n’ Pundeshis - afraid
it ain’t yet confined to the pages of Haralambos, guv
- only nowadays the Old Bill says he’s helping Nato
search every nuke and Qurannie.
Deathreat Man sends a My Little Pony minus a body
to the Corleonasi, but he ain't no brony, only
demonstratin' stones so stonking
that Don Cagni di Lacey cups his own coglioni
in his mafiablack incontinence *****,
sobbing dishonourably, like his ladycop namesakes
off the box, were they on the beat and on the blob.
Giovanni de Stephanopheles sends
Deathreat Mansion the invoice for sending
the CPS to the cleaners, specifically
Satan's charladies, who all have legal degrees.
Deathreat Investments' reptilian rapsheets
for commercial sociopathy are as long as your arm,
but if it was your arm, Giovanni could take it off
at the shoulder as it simultaneously signed
a binding disclaimer. Legal evil eagle disbarred
from that courthouse in the clouds,
Lucifer's own excuser, whose astucious loopwork
corruptly crocheted disparate threads and yarns
into a delicately embroidered load of old rope.
The defendant, Mr. Lifreat Esquire, acquitted
coz he looked genteel as a doily, courtesy
of Giovanni's barristerial blarney.
Like a public image pay 'n' spray's the Oldbailey
if you're rich, when you got the pockets for an oily
sophist, who'll repaint the past in warm colours
of character references paid for over the computer,
paint a glowing portrait in bloodstain remover,
dim the Luminol via denial's retroactive history hoover,
once the jurors 'ave been jellybrained
by sheer weight of Giovanni's argumentativeness,
as he silverbungedly houdinifies the Croesus Kray
whodunnit from a sinking padlocked trunk,
labelled 'Sheer Weight Of The Evidence'.
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.
Deathreat Men: send them to Wormwoodscrubs
before they send us to Heaven, that hirise open prison
Theserpent on community service scrubs,
coiled round God's telescopic mop of seven drawtubes,
whilst those who never did no wrong perdure
thru harpyclappy purgatory of praise 'n' orison,
where yawn even those saints whose patience
commands hagiolatry amongst the other saints.
Another round of kumbayah on goddy guitar
even has the canonised crowd covet deaf frets
or tempted to trespass into the path of a passing
as it reaps, threshes and winnows the sheep from the goats.
Heaven makes Bawburgh look a partytown,
reciting the Lor'prurgh means thine is the humdrum, the snorer
and the boring forever and ever, oh man...It's only Heaven
coz there Azrael is a dodo; there's no
repomonstrous, osseous, controversial figure
in a cowl by the name of  SkullymcSkullface
in Heaven's Who's Who.  There, there's no
mortality to terminologically
qualify that ultimatum which is the M.O.
of the Deathreat Men:
no death to define what is weapon.
But there isn't really any God to own a drone called Azrael,
so how can Obama's drones be Raguels?
Therefore there is no Heaven
other than the Earthly Death Of All Deathreat Men,
other than an ironic forest of scaffolds
it's only human not to build in a day.
Any more to it than that and we're on
a superstitious hiding to nothing,
and may as well redeem Deathreat Men by reclassifying them
Chaoschristians, who by lucky fatal accident
bring forward our freedom from their sins
when they do us in.
Bawburgh = diminutive village outside Norwich
Morning has broken,
a borning worth mocken.
Warden Sun slurks
up, looking for all the world
l/ lastterm's teabag still on the kitchencounter
of student who spent her summerjob corporatively
Splendid morningsafter are Sky
Fawkes's housewarmings of no fixed abode,
but this mildew morning drizzturbs
sans amber clamour, dockwork
orange & aubade-bleed into poetic carparks.  

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

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

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

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

Pesky petitbourgeoisie
in their lobrid SUVs
transport portliness to transport
links, once sofas & fruitbowls
relinquish jingly
ignitors. Balance due to the diurnal toxins, the dismal poisons,
the regnant moral obscurity:
the outlook looks bright for those who'd like one
last great fireball
gig, globalised vespertine slagheap
of Kali Yuga. Endgame encore is ongoing
bomb of -yawn - sameold brandnew obnubilant morning.
There is a babe online I talk to from time to time and her name is Clairey-Lou.
She lives in Worcester on the other side of the country, prolly never will rendezvous.
She got big doe eyes that make Bambi's eyes look positively beady.
She likes to mix salad cream and mayonnaise... and baby they say I'm crazy?!
She's in love with a guy called Harvey, but he won't start a family 'case two lost bubbies sends Clairey loopyloo.

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

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

And sometimes when we sign off, we write 'Elephant Juice'.
Clairey-Lou says your lips make the same movements
enunciating E.J. as when you say 'I love you'.
I don't know why we text it, but it's nice.
It's like our way of saying I don't love you IRL,
but let's not destroy the fantasy that if we met, we might.
Elephant Juice, Clairey-Lou, or should I say EJ CL, xxxxx.
Introducing an ickle intellectual,
a firehearted, foxhaired tomboy geek called
Miss Eloise Agatha Emerald.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Ah c'mon, ****** Gian...  oh riiiiiight, I need to come up
with some new materi...'ELP!!!!!!!!'  
Before Weeze got more bugged,
                                 Ludo was dragged off
                                 when legature on his lig,
I mean ligature on his leg, was dealt                     distant tug.
Illustrated version:
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