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To my local chippy - they're Korean-
to order a Kitkat deepfried in batter.
Odds of survival beat Macky Dee's
cold pasteurised faecal matter.
When she cluck, I pretend it's love.
When she gouch, take my chance to touch
Rita Oramorph! Rita Oramorph!
Wait on her like the Queen of Sheba.
Wait on her like the King of Sherpas.
Rita Oramorph! Rita Oramorph!
Docs'll wean her off
onto Kia-oramorph
- worry Rita more than Xena,
Warrior Xenomorph.
I swap my script for a roofie stripZZZs
- Noddy, she godda nice body in Diadora shorts!
Rita Oramorph! Rita Oramorph!
If you love me,
you will sell me
a subby
or a jelly.
If you want me,
you will sub me
a trammie
or a vallie.
O pharmaceutically
blackmail me,
Rita Oramorph!
Since Blairmerica, jobseeker's frills ain't been allowed.
Plasma screen no opioid to the baying crowd.
Government's highclass callgirl with one ambrosial ***;
my own mother's milk was ******'s Nesquik,
but I always had nice pair of Nike Air Child Benefits.
The 3rd World War will be fought
instant they stop my Income Support.
The Union Jack won't be my blanket
on a green and pleasant embankment.
What exactly is it you want, John?

I only wish the benefits system loved me like I love it.

Tell Scameron & Tossbourne the effect of a green ounce
presages a fuel crisis on Joyseeker's Allow-ounce.
Smother your kids if they wanna grow up rich;
don't gedda wear plain pair of Air Max Tax Credits,
but being on the dole is cushty for the soul.
There's a K in the House of Lords if you
gimme a swig of your ****.
There's a P in the House of Lords if you
gimme a swig of your meths.
What exactly is it you want, John?

I only wish the benefits system loved me like I love it.

Marry me, we'll live in ****, Mrs.Iain Duncan Smith.
Marry me, twos on that spliff, Mrs. Iain Duncan Smith.
Marry me and our kids will aspire to ******* ****.
Marry me and for tea we will have broken biscuits.
Marry me, we will live like Smiths, Mrs. Iain Duncan ****.
Marry me, we'll live in ****.
Written about the last Tory government, but it's applicable to all Economic Social Darwinist administrations.
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.
So it's cool, baby, cool,
that my prayer for love
goes the way of all such beggingletters to Big Daddy Nonsequitur:
nowhere.
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
soooooooooooo
long,
that I see nothing offsong
or fishy in iffy Lurpak heirapparent who saw sense:
Death is the skull of an old mucker.
(Disclaimer: this poem uses naturalistic, mildly racist language in a context that in no way should be construed as inciting hatred. I  disapprove thoroughly of hatecrimes or any thuggish misconduct. However, everything I write is the contextual servant of my existential-nativistic ethos of  authenticity of expression, and so for me no vocab can be taboo. I also **** off Tories in this part of the sequence, who I really do hate)

Altho' all in  all, alone is NO NO NO, by way of contrast written so:

I recall how,as a young horndog in t/ heydecade
of my 1st serious wuveydovey shackup,
upon 1 rosyfingered hideout from hardgraft
I'd feign slumber, a superfluously surreptitious,
welcome ******,  
at my not yet ex dressing for work,
squinting l/ a **** under redlights on t/ fritz
at her slipping on her bra after embrocating
& talcing her ****. My perving gurn & ****** asthma
florally niqabbed by t/ duvet,  1 f/  a wankbank
of poignancy such privileged access to her
fragrant ritual. Feminine finesse at fresheningup
arcane to mucky man pulling Sid James faces
from an enclave swaddled in her
similarly suaveolent ladylike linen,  
luxuriously laundered, unlike bachelor bedding,
on more than biannual basis.
Man, that was t/ most home I'd known.

Or should I be down t/ Square
(musical interlude:
'Take me down to Anglia Square,
t/ Poles &  t/ Pakis & t/ *** 'uns shop there
- O won't you please take me home, yeahayeahair!
Take me down to Anglia Square,
where everybody's got grease in their hair
- O won't you please take me home, yeahayeahair!
Take me down to Anglia Square,
t/ pikies & t/ paydaylenders rob there
- O won't you please take me home, yeahayeahair!),
anyway, should I be there
& my craggy babyblues home in on
t/ gravid grace of some cutiepatootie ma-to-be,
I wonder would it feel l/ home
were I t/ 1 entitled to place
his ear to t/ mound l/ a doting Tonto?
Another soppystern Lplater pater
supersoonerratherthanlater, squatting reporter
upon t/ latest mulekick w/in her tum of tendertautness,
only this time listening out f/ a Lysandero?
Away in a manger, no lone ranger danger,
may my wife be plainer & my kid less crazier
than me & know no knitted wallart should read
'Hell Sweet Hell', even if hell's kitsch. En

route to my supportgroup one stormy purple morn,
along Hotblack Road which ribald vandal
had rechristened 'Hotblack ****', I beheld
an amorphous austerity origami
of abandoned rags, then twignified they signified
an abandoned man, when I noticed  t/ peeling Nikes
poking out of t/ abject coat. Risible shelter rising
l/ a premature pall, f/ he was still respiring
w/ a shallow rise & fall. Lastnite's
2litres of Jaywick champagne now a blackout
memento brimming w/ t/ brusque rain,
upon his bedsidecabinet kerbstone
prelude to a mortuaryslab.
I never saw his face, only his effacement,
as British winter waterfall
of  permanent staycation smashed down.

Y'know, that ****** graffito was halfrite:
to a Tory t/ pavement jockey plight
of another is l/ ****. But don't underestimate
how sublimated sadosexual delight
tingling in Tories  breeding destitution
is full Thatcherite frisson when they undomesticate
fellow native Englishmen, feralise us
into cold & white Hotblack Top Cats living in bins:
f/ climaxing spoil of squires in Tory classwar
is classic victory over t/ purely poor.
Yet, that crumpled bundle of person in t/ rain
could win Buck House in Corbynomic sweepstakes,
in republican raffle come t/ revolution,
but after being that homeless in yr homeland,
how could anywhere feel home again?
L/ yesterdave, I can picture Glaswegian Dave
w/ his Robert Plant locks (sebaceous oils hairoically
serving this roughsleeping ****), embroiled in t/ usual
skelartries of vagrants w/ SKOL arteries:
sherry, ******, needlesheroin shenanigans
& shenanipettycrime. Tucking into some horse
w/ no need f/ a pairofteeth, after a Specialbrew aperitif,
then some post 'iccup pisticuffs w/ crabby cabbies
down Tesco taxirank. They drove away, but he drank
& stayed & stayed & stayed. Dave
also got my grunger brother from another mother,
Koopa Trooper's lil' sis in t/ familyway at 14. Kudos
to underage Liz tho', being wooed
by such a tatterdemalionmaned skaggis,
Sideshow Boabbarneted smackonteur
- love is, after all, showbiz. Anyhoo, 1 time
Glaswegian Dave regaled me w/ a gouch down memorylane,
of riding pillion on a furshlugginer chromeboneshaker deathtrap,
revved by a fellow ******* porridgewog across
t/ Forth Bridge at breakneck Braveheart brums,
a Highlandwind afroing his Robert Plant mane
(preserved so remarkably,  I must reremark,  
by sebaceous oils, despite a lifetime
on t/ slabs & on t/ tiles), w/ a deathwrap
of Deadly Nightshade, belladonna sellotaped
under his armpit. Dave davulged that  t/ trick
was to rip that bellotaped selladonna
off t/ 2nd  you felt toxin titillate
t/ ******-attic sweet spot, or
'Ma hert widhae exploded, laddie, at 90 miles an oor!
Hootsmonseeyoujimmygroundskeeperwillieetc.'  

A typical Gen Xer deathwish teen at t/ time,
that oxterry devil's cherry deathcultmystery
& armpit raspberry to life, Atropic trip
on a murderbike sounded l/ a ride home to me.
If anyone considers 'porridgewog' racist, they really need to get a life.
Potamoisi toisin autoisin embainousin, hetera kai hetera hudata epirrei*, Heraclitus

Home is overgrown upturned Skoda Larkman gardens,
t/ green fuse that drives t/ weeds thru t/ roached rust.
Home is an old stoner blazing up for 1st time in a wily,
Bach's Air on a Gstring rastabillyskank stylee.
& other stillborn whimsy in ascension daze
of velvet donuts & cobalt monoxide boas,
sinuously flailing to t/ top of mi old
pleasuredome (ex-ape apex I can't think off right now),
l/ my house clearance oeuvre casting about
f/ sickness footnote from a psychagogue
worth a deathbed namedrop.
But Afagdu beats Argus everytime, so before
pretty Paranoia flutters her abyss of eyes,
flyjars my headspace in a sparagmosphere
of cylindered sniggers & canned scopaesthesia,
this little poet went whitey whiney ennui
all t/ way... Back to life, well t/ past, home
to my 1st song:

'We are t/ ****** skyvers, we fly l/ t/ spiders
summer soughs walloped off gossamer homes.
Drugs  & jobs are much of a muchness,
you do both uptill t/ tomb strikes one.'

But that 1st broken home of teenage drossomer
was a paperhouse skinnedup by a long pig
& shrugged to t/ ground by  a sinkhole tonic solfa
rightoutta redlionlane of that deafdumblind
white dwarf wolf, Indifference.
Who blewout my lucky stars l/ emphysema,
t/ thunderthiever from Nietzsche memers
& wheezers who are dreamers of kneesers,
1 last memoryfoamparty in Ibiza.
Big bad meh
left my own homing howl hanging f/ all time,
was no more worthwhile wolf who windsheared
sheep of home off my loner's fallow.
No shadowy plot, just a plot of shadow, any
future
dream
home
razed far more fundamentally than simply at t/ foundations.
I am a walking long shadow, talking to t/ long shadows
of walking home late longago.
Potamoisi toisin autoisin embainousin, hetera kai hetera hudata epirrei:
"Ever-newer waters flow on those who step into the same rivers."

Larkman = Norwich council estate

— The End —