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Lice H-P Mar 2017
Jonestown Kool-Aid coming down stairrods.
Old, sparky stairlifts tail crematoria
Adolf's, Presley's lovechild, 20th-hungover
Kuklux twang intones 'Rock & Raus, raus, raus!'

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

Hoing l/ 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,
fragglefanged serendipitilessly w/ an old syringe,
whilst Sir Philipcobblepot's ****** megayacht
gutbursts thru blue whale's rostrum as penguinge cringe.

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

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

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

The Future's child in a cape emotes Neilhilborn
in viral doggerel- doesn't mean the Future's got wings.
No, it'll climb
'long monkeybars of dogshitty dildoes over pits
of ******* crocodiles (the Pope won the Turnerprize).

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

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

I assumed maniacalcackle was madman close,
modulating the Cosmictragedy gelastically,
but my hubris dawned on me: it was Void's amusement
that I thought to sate its inverted Babel intray maw
w/ puny cunting poetry.
Bailey B Sep 2010
I thirst.


You rip through here

a hurricane

biting through civilians and officials alike

until their bloodshed stains the streets

and the streams tick off the tally of your victims

your only aim to crush and maim

regardless of the death toll

or the reason

or the phasing of the moon

And then come crashing down again


while we are left, shaking our heads,

to sweep your secrets

into crematoria and coffins

Then dust off our hands

to wipe away your tears


and scrub away the fever

That leaves a ring of soapy sickness

in your bathwater

And then hold you,

bitter infant,

until the tide falls away


The constants, the healers,

What some call the mothers

though you are not our blood children


We are the ones that soothe your cuts and burns

Listen to your side of the story

And settle the fights of dollar bills

and ancestors

that you scorn without abandon

Hear you simper for a lullaby

As we rock you back to sleep


But the sighs don’t escape

until after we’ve checked under the bed for monsters

for the hundredth

or the thousandth

or the millionth time this week;

we can’t let you catch on

that the only real beasts lie within ourselves.


We would give you the moon

Had you not tamed it

And the deserts for your sandbox

But no matter what we give

You want it all you want it all

And we want nothing


in return

Just a single peaceful night,

vengeful child,

tea stirred with vanilla and sleep

but your screamings pierce our dreams

and nightmares


We are the worrywarts

The unsure

The cautious and the skeptics

Who don’t believe in jumping on the bed

Or in other such adventures


We are wrinkled brows and unpressed collars

The “it’s for your own good”s and the seamstresses

That stitch your heart back together

Before it’s broken one time too many


And you end up like us.


We are the aftermath, the backstory,

the prayers and dictionaries

that make it out of life alive

The Barmecidal harmony, the snatches of hymns


We are the scraps of coffee-tainted paper

that you slap against the telephone poles

As if the taste of scathing news-ink

is a bandage for the hurting

And we fold debris into our kerchiefs

saving them as souvenirs


And you call us close-minded

You call us cowards

As you snap your jaws and roar

down a vast and lonesome prairie

like the wind


Fast to laugh

and quick to run away


As we wander the streets lonely,

the gaslamps shattered on the cobblestones,

and stoop to collect the pieces

of the life you left behind.


Forgive them, Father,

for they know not what they do.
(C) Bailey Betik 2010
Lice H-P Feb 2018
UHT milk from foodbanks we drink it in the evening but we have nothing
to eat or drink the next day or the day after that
The Germans didn't lose the war in the Warsaw Ghetto
thus the Economic Darwinists have learned
not to overeach beyond streets of high mortality co-morbidity
In Tory Britain they call that uplifting
O your silver spoon Sixtus Rees-Mogg

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

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

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

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

O your silver spoon Sixtus Rees-Mogg
O Grenfell austerity crematoria
so uplifting they chortle
Foodbanks are uplifting they smirk
Universal Credit is the final solution
now Economic ****** is the Master of Britain
O your silver spoon Sixtus Rees-Mogg
O your silver ashes Jeremiah Deen
Norman Crane Sep 2020
Bodies jostle toward the heatsource,
Foot stomp, elbowed in the rib,
Muttering voices hoarse, exhale mists
That swirl like deadmen's ashes in the wind.
Pale lumina saturates the cinder skies,
Under which the aged remember
The suns of former lives,
Their memories the glowing solitary embers
Of a world we've left behind.
Ahead, a mother veils her babe with rags
From a passer-by's ravenous gaze.
A man automatously drags
A rattle-bag of assorted human remains,
Leaving trails in the dirt,
Leaving trails in the dirt.
We have splintered apart the frame
Of this landscape of hellpain,
Against smokestack sequoias and asphalt seas,
We stumble toward the crematoria.
My God, the coldness hurts!
As upon the canvas of this frozen Earth
We enact the terminus of human innovation,
The burning of every breath,
The engineered suicide of civilization.
Out, out, brief candle,
said Macbeth.
Into the cull chamber I step,
Hoping there at least I will find warmth,
In death.

— The End —