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(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?

— The End —