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Jun 2018
Rabies & genocide, boys & girls,
my contemporabies and also future shack-
dwellers (drumroll, *** note):  presenting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the Devil's seen the intel. We fence
our consciences at art galleries, buy coffee table prints
like papal indulgences. But Jesus is a gerund.
Lysander 'Lice' Hardy-Pearce
Written by
Lysander 'Lice' Hardy-Pearce  41/M/East Anglia, England
(41/M/East Anglia, England)   
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