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Dylan McFadden Dec 2020
I heard it early on,
Shortly after birth...

That time when I was thrown
Into this place upon the earth

The constant, constant ticking,
The ticking of a clock

The day’s and hours clicking;
Tomorrow’s mental block


Sein-zum-Tode, I know her –
Pulling me ever closer

And pushing me ever further
From yesterday, once-over

Today, I hear it loudly;
Sometimes I hear it not

And thinking things profoundly:
This ticking has to stop

Lord of Lies, Father of Flies, works at dunny
Canarywharf, works to keep
attocerebral sheeple, lairy lambs who wear
wolves, falseclass mooncalves on the way to The Chop.
mooncalves steered nowhere selfless, same
personal darkness where shepherded masses always lead.
sheeple swineherded by churnalistic chyrons,
clarion dogwhistles, catkicking Sirens.
O Suntard,
upclose yr Island Dwarf Sirens are silicone chickens
w/ chlorinated ****, populipstick on neolib pigs.
wonder what Miss New Wotnot did w/ her new wotnots,  notwhat became of Overton widows, Faith, Hope & Charity.
O Suntards,
here on Snickersnee Island, the arrows that fly by night dark
as money are the swords, decapitwatting, which
'**** Sun-
readers - Scumbuyers my Lord, Scumbuyers - '**** yon
nesiote peuplade of Arkadders & Glandricks. & hon-
orary Suntards
(w/ decapitraits) have their Weltanshoed-in
by all lamestream lucrepriest lugenpress UK.
tarders trained at finest spirearchies of teratogeny
to titrate propaganda such that Scumbuyer (my Lord)
in their fractally catkicking swillions swallow
argumenta ad crumenum. Whilst for broadsheet
the wine o' clock news is artfully autoskewed
into expedient misreadient of Ideologreed's ideologredients.
But all Suntards
are caitiff lions on swill. & tho' it might be
proletjorative denouncing semiskilled turnspit
as hyenapanzees,  who covet shortlived Judas perks    
a Camp Kapo might weirdflex, such soulshorting
are owed stiff eyeope' of English truthserum,
veritas tea. My spout is mightier than the sword! O ye
Mudsill Suntards
shaming us Mudsills are horrorsoccer suckers
of squaddies' bodies' botties' colluvies.
ed by sprot, the **** of mationalisn,
upon the Belgrano they still bestow a belligerent bel guardo.
I've Gotchadammerung! Once you were l/ stressful
stepsons I contemned but could not censure, but now,
now Suntards,
I see there is no keeping you onside.
You are not the tacit vassals of subtle ******,
but Suntards benighted,
dim as a dimbo's dimple in a dim light.  
From fruntal brutile futal bowing bove lobes
to yr Suntard
cerebellum, 'tis all massomatic machiavellum
to lumpencommentariat, who script psittacosmic
psyches, themselves onscript (joun. equiv.
of lobbyfodder).  Punditocratic quockerwodgers
Reutardise Suntards,
quote verbatim for quotawonga
vaunted vermin in ermine/ khaki/ tweeds/ pinstripe.
Some professional Suntard-
ers even don Kippot, now Suntard synagogues
of Stockholm syndrome defame in the name
of socialcleansing at home, ethnic abroad. Suntard-
isation is mightier than the Lord! Death
to the fascistinsect, in fact, the preying noncompis
mantis of the Suntard
sheeple, whose dupers delight in Suntard
seinsvergessenheit, but you won't readallaboutit
in the Suntard Times.
Nor of dem jibberly jukes in gilets jaunes,
whom us Anglais should be jel & emulous of, but
istan is too ******* hornswaggled by The Stick
of ragstoriches exceptions to The Rule, too
igrade to evade the headsoftening powerpincers of pomp
& pageantry & Brexcetera Brexcetera. Or maybe
are just plain 'tards for the Indiangiver bingo.
Perfidiousalbion on speed? Pah, Borisbritain's
on spice...& Suntard
skimpressions scantamount to a creed.
O vox populi comix vex me! Our Utopia of Butskellism's gone
crazy l/ a Foxtard!
So don't get Suntarded by the Sun, be luxtarded
by a deep **** on a lost road, struck dumb by heatstroke,
as you squint at our blinding, illuminating star.
'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.
So should apocatitfortat of prayerpaganda foment
an elevatedsense of lowmorale in your atheist
breast, unlibtarded antineolibtard reader, ye
blessed rationalists who besmirch not
this middleagespreading universe of lurching
stars, either as some dingdongmerrilyonhighly dubious
monkish dongless dovemens' cote
(where a starver & deserter, Celestial Molester
& deistically teabreaking Gold Commander
incurs culpa lata from afar);  or for Mack Daddy Allah's
Carlsberg cathouse-***-Shalimar-garden-in-the-sky:

then godless peacefulishniks amongst us must decry
religion's metaphysical desecration
of master chancer Nature's
stochastic starscapes & slapstick mathematics,
the breakaway balsa beauty of Expansion's
exponential black solvent (not collapsible prop gods),
the universe & the universe citing irreconcilable differences,
as galaxies display the creativity of runaways.
So shall we make a good restart

& shuttleshunt those uttercunts, Binliner 'n' Shrub, to Mars?
There, those blatent caveboys can slugitout mano a mano
over whose Weltuntergangsstimmung becomes king
of terracotta desolation,
warlording it over Marie Rose sauce dust devils.
3-2-1, *******! I mean, blast off!
& just like that, we could dispose of dusky Bin in a rocketfinned
bin & he can take his carnage cult of dugma dummkopfs w/ him
(who inshalla-lledgedly primetimed attacks
like ***** pranks Jihadis ha ha over)! Likewise, Shrub
can swap Gaia, whom he & his Halliburton organgrinders
seem so set on strangulating,
for a Martian mansion of nothingsubstantial,
exposing banishees from Ol' Blue 'n' Green Isles.
O may him & Bin not even be thin
finders of Zaqqumfruit like gorgonrinds
upon their prison of prawnish plains.
'Specially serves Shrub right, for he & Pentagon
Mafia Dons would swap Sol for cypher, Mother Corn
for Monsanto chemlock (let Bayer beware!),
all the while giftraping their crude larcency
of  industrialvitalfluid, Castrol rather than kinder Castor's
crude precursor, in a godshilla's christ grift,
the Christiannexing
of stragglers & mad dogs who aren't mad dogs
on a starspangled leash amongst the Opec pack.

Contemporarywouldbe petrole'mperors
comparably realmemptying both in intent & in relentless
barbarism of the Book, Shrub & Binliner clack
satirisk heads where no satire tsks, instead lock
nodulicorns significantly micropenile on faroffenuff
astropenal Mars, already sterile & bloodred.
Whilst everyloveelse, we canjust
& revert to sighing a relieftempered breathofanxiety still
worrisolipsisome, but nowjust
secularly streamlined frownlines
from cigarettes & their absence anticipated.
Or anticipation of the absence
the stubby dowdy ball of Death schlepped behind
Smoke's winding finery of chains.
Or neurotically kneel before navalbraining
primacy of bodymass promulgated
by the pressagents of anorexics w/ platinumrecords.
& natural disasters, natural disappointments. &
History's filibusters to adult pesterpower of Hubris.
'All this, Ours now Allah is a mirage & God is dead
outdated!' said the Phainesthesia
w/ a degree in Divinity from the University of Sous Rature to me.

I only pray, figuratively, that those holycancers,
archarse pair of hellfire galahs in exile on Mars
do not mindmeld their pitiful peanut filberts & schlock souls
in dei-mentia's co-re-invention, ecumenically bromance
a Republicratdemoconmerge-hadeen merger into
an allnew thundermentalist Al-Meriqaeda Axis,
Shrubliner sect invading from Nasa's naughtystep.
Undoers of stardust's labour, phasers set to auto-de-fe,
up to eschatological crossover capers, Shrubliners'
deathstardust lasers light stalkers after the Light's talkers
like me. But of course deprived of my poeticlicense,
Binliner & Shrub would have asphyxiated on Mars
in less time than it would take to watch the last few minutes
of 'Total Recall'... Cool.

But now my Bathoven mo' is over,
brrr be the bathwater, but that's not why the
rat of a shiver shot up my drainpipe spine.
No, it's the chill
realisation there's still nowt but rovers on the claret planet,
whose namesake's malignfluence is sole
deity corroborated by incarnadine lagoons
the massgraves of heretics & recusants,
infidels & honourkillings
spurt here on Earth,
no colourclash where civilisations clashed.
Cosmickeymouse shekinahs of countless
cosmickeytaking fingernailparers have been
postulated, ghosttoofeted,

but only God w/ form
is the same old god who is love
(& He wrote the trilogy on the standard 7 sins).
So, very verily I say unto thee:

Bless Yourself.
Weltuntergangsstimmung = 'apocalyptic mood', German
Zaqqum = a tree in Hell, Arabic
dugma = 'the button' suicide bombers press to detonate their payload , Arabic
Phainesthesia = from Greek phainein - "to show," phainesthai " - to appear", after Heidegger.
Homunculus Mar 2016
Enamored of the possible, and racing,
  Through a winding maze of endless choices,  
  Daunted by the obstacles we're facing, and 
  Dizzied by the clamor's many voices,

Shackled by a heavy chain of causes,
  Binding us to all we've ever known,
  The many paths before us give us pause, as
  We struggle to define which are our own,

Within a world that's not of our own making
    We anxiously await the day we'll find,
    A journey worthy of our undertaking, so
    That purpose in our lives may be defined, but
Perhaps our fate condemns us all to wander, and
       Our lives are merely mysteries to ponder
I think this is the first of a series of 5 Shakespearean sonnets based on Aristotle's rhetorical foundations. Telos means an "ultimate object or aim." This particular iteration also owes its driving force to Heidegger's notion of "thrownness" or the idea that we all inherit a ready made world from the history of our predecessors, and struggle against the way the facts which constitute that world condition what is possible for us to achieve within it. The other 4 will be Kairos, Logos, Ethos, and Pathos; and I will be working on and publishing them as they come to me. - Your Humble Servant
Wren Djinn Rain Aug 2015
Half white, half other
Mother of a soon to be
Born from an intent at backlash
Mother of a born to be
Plastic spoon in a microwave
Destitute, minimal,
designer criminal
Bun in the oven
Baby be coming
Out of any mind to choose
Mother of a soon to be
Potential property to bruise
Heidegger enlisted to the off-side
Probably due to the wave before
Baby lost to the in and out
of control, vessel of the past and preordained
Prescribed a will denying the innate
All joke, all alone
Began to end in a hot flash
Mother of a soon to be
Antonia Hot Flash

— The End —