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The lares & penates of a Dum Dum Boy,
drained 'Jamaican bacons' & fagnolia niknaks.
Typical Bishopbridge binimalist wet hostel environment.
& pins & skizlas & analogue photos of the estranged,
exorcised w/ a staggerer's staggered, grim mimosa:
morning gasp of fagash squash
to cleanse the palate before
2 litres of Larkman champagne.

Every zombie might be a Lazarazombie,
but no drewer's brooping vasectomeat sodead
as brutalised glaze brandishing brew's toll.
Kitchencupboards of kryptonoat, smaquamarine
greaterspeckled bread. Floordrobe flesh poverty
defoliated. In gypo slippers, Franionstein's Frogger
providentially jaywalks to the p-shop,
9lived Moses parting the chrome.

O that bezonian balatron
smokes butts l/ an electric commode!
After slurping a dimp foraged
from the rubberjayed whac-a-**** pavement,
he expectorates a 'j'-robbed Swede Gunner
(L'ungberg). Sepia corneas strandscour Salvation
Army pickings, his community of co-
dependents, the Bishopbridge brigade.

Skazenger fates cracked 'em Kizmet's hardnuts,
Skizmet's swizzed hard cheese gavagers,
waterboarded by Swizmet's hardplace rockpools.
Ariston men hydor, but addiction is a hydra,
a ferocity of forking cravings. Feralcity
centre's been totalled by an austeroid
the doctor winds of a Labour council could not
blow offcourse, nor air the skint stink from these explicit streets.

Skid row's a bit on the nose.
Scooze me mate, can you spare 97p for busfare/
Rosie Lee/ nepenthe? Compassion is rare,
so round it up to a priceless pound.
No rightwinger's urbanmythic limo roundthecorner,
even if there is a roof & a ripe stereotype,
aggressively greasy sheets for a suicide's
shroud, overtheroad at Bishopbridge.

A Boris bishop would begrudge slow suicides
2 pennorth or indeed 1 pounnorth of prompt
p-shop poison, fizzy fin de moi-meme for
the vanless white trash. Even some Christlike humanists
hold it counterproductive to give alms
for selfharm. But in the Void before Creation,
wasn't God destitute? Yet His agency was not denied.
& so here we are.

In actuality the omnipotent bully pulpit
is the billionairepress. Hopeless? Awbless.
OD? Ohdearieme. The billionairepress has grossscope
to scapegrace & scroteface the Bishopbridgers
as scrimshanking shamabrahams, squalording
it up in shinfradigs. Doorway menace mendicants
bluearsingabout their jagged rounds. Impoverish
hardpest clochards choosing an alky's blue agues.

O ye judgy psychomuggle Darthy Maul readers
w/ your bridgeburning bishops, maybe yon
beghard bagheads & nurps tudgers are
chemicallyinconvenienced because they're
biochemicallychallenged? However,
there is no sacrosanct gutter, no floor
to howlow one has to have fallen before
the billionairepress gang will stop kicking you.

All it takes is 1 bad omnibus
of problematic episodes, l/ 'Enders
on a Sundaybackintheday. & it could be you.
You raising a custard diamond of flame
to the JPS in your scabrous, gummyrubbled
grin, a Bishopbridge brigand's
barfulous bazoo belonging to you.
You existentially Chinese snoo-

kered by the monkey on your back,
to whom an indentured blag is your
edentate darg. You one of the pocketlint people,
outcasteddown the back
of Society's sofa politics, praying
to Jehobah that social cleansers'
hobo hoovers don't desaparecido-cide ya.
You preferring the pukelele to violins

when nice narcs play mumcop, dadcop,
plaintively probe 'Why make life ****...ter?'
You an internal refugee from some obscene
nurture, some groomer's goldmine, out of your
pannikug butnotdeadyet, an active derelict.
100%proof the psychotichor
of wolvewinos surviving the waiting cure.
Because the **** is the only cure for the poor door.
I remember my old den,
1 I had at 7 or was it 10,
anyway back when I were a lad,
sugar-rush-subsisting on Blackjacks ‘n’ Fruit Salads...
O I wanna desert the unticked boxes of women and taxmen,
live more simply thru emotional regression,
sprint like a prepubescent in plimsols back to th'ol den.
To my oldest den, givvus a seaty or a crossy
on a time-machine,
t'where the doorman's dividend
was a sticky-fingered Panini sticker.
Now, I'm no cod-bucolic evoker
of lost rustic youth 
bittersweetly down the zeit-chute
à la A.E.Housman - th'ol den weren't that sylvan.
Suffice to say, those were the days
when a Snickers bar was known as 'Marathon'
- th'athlete's choice of choc, if said athlete's an arrers man! 

Has the old den been forgotten by Hooknose Horan,
him and his cretinue of foetal footie hooligans?
Child hoodlums long before hoodies 
became the in-thing for politicians,
Horan and his henchkids were budding
hootball fooligans,
such bittle lastards that years later their victims
sic spoonerisms on th'abhorrent children, already rotten,
who routinely trashed our den (tho’ to be fair,
was bit doddery in mint condition).

But gaps prechavs gratuitously bashed
me and my gang as routinely rethatched.
The two wooden pallet 'walls'  we'd propped
'pon oldden modcon burl or jutting chaparral
the Council left to feral fallow;  these we stood up again, 
insulated anew with brushwood, with rubbishwood,
deadgetation and also vegetal vandal fistifulls, fascicles
of thicket and false-oat-grass.
Proper little humans,
we had whatever we could uproot and dismember
from derelict plot copse, from crumbs of rus in urbe
only brats and cats might deem dead ringer for Nature,
being of sufficiently small stature.

A child's a cherished imbecile,
whose thinking, mistaken, magical,
is that 10ft sq. woods of wasteland weeds,
a weedland waste of public space
be playground pastoral. All summerhols,
we urchin woodsmen
terraformed ‘n’ pleasuredomed
a strip of bric-a-bracken and hairy brome,
but olddenners got older soon after,
and each went their separate ways
(on solo scavenger hunts for bongo bushes,
by same preteen pangs presaged).

Been sc'autumns since then,
and tho' th'old den survived Hooknose,
 obsolescence and yobsolescence
spent out in 80-odd changes of season
is certain demolition. But I'm gonna bivouac
at the old den site tonight,
like a big kidiot/ noble savage/ *****/
***-offender Akela on the lam.
Just hope a phone-mast ha'nt been mount
atop the old den's old spot,
the green green grass of home
radioactively sallowed into a sickly straw,
unfit but for feedbag of Pestilence's fleabag steed.

Kids are flids indeed: I assumed I'd grow up a whitebread
hero, a debonair dibble and worldfamous nonsmoker,
married to merry widow, Queen Di,
 but I'm ghettoised, Aldi-Lidl-and-Nettoised, in a bedsit
the National Trust wou'nt even bother to blacklist,
injecting ephemera into peepers that don't even feel
the lidl prik of TVquik. Yeah, when Time's simpleton in short pants, I took it as given I'd court the Lord Mayor's daughter,
and rake in billions doodling for the Beano,
but now I'm a man, my masculinity's in doubt
coz I don't care whether Worthie let Greeno
go, or Fergie Keano...Waitabout,
my manhood had fell into disrepute
even as a boy: at th'86 boomerang campaign
of Browny's Canaries, dint go ****-a-hoop
and hoop-a-**** and back again,
nor all handwringy when Stringy whammed Steve the Bruce
on transferlist  (no snip, but future Sir Hairdryer bungdabung,
topflight travail and tired'n'emotionals yet t'turn Fergie's phiz
tomatone as 'is Red Devs' kit). But I desist... 

Those were the days when we called Starburst 'Opal Fruits',
when I could file manhood under 'Future Point, Moot'.
O Mum, give me my tetanus then drop me off
by bitty boscage on Notridge Road, and into Bowthorpe
undergrowth will I redelve
- I'm rebuildin'! Given it a few decades,
but I don't fit in. More my own master then,
waybackwhena olddenner,
more my own master when I was looked after,
when it was de rigueur that I be looked after,
coz kids can be feeble leeching dreamers
without blame. Arduously unshed crying shame
adults unlearn easy option of crying away shame,
coz conscience as constant culpability corrupts,
till, as if our own conks, we cut out our ducts!
Why earth of our ubiquitous probation's scorched!
Mischief moist in the eyes of our early days, decried
dries out into short sight - the right ice, left drought
- that sees sere any throat whose cold comforting's croaking
the croaked commandment all ears hear first,
'Thou Must Play Nicely'. O I can't adjust
to everyone else's loss of innocence, so backta th'ol den
I'll rebeat Lil'-sander's track.

From the Big Boys' world I abstain: growing up's a ****'s game.
I've got no interest in bungeejumping.
I've got no interest in seeing Venice.
I've got no interest in niteclubbing.
& I must be in zen coz I don't care
what zen is.

I've got no interest in winning Euromillions.
I've got no interest in what the Donald said next.
I've got no interest in signing another e-petition.
Or why Sleb Y slighted Sleb X.

I've got no interest in New Yoik in the spring.
I've got no interest in Rothschilds' Beelzebunce.
I've got no interest in silly season 2nd Coming
- you wait ages for 1, then 3 messiahs
arrive at once!

I've got no interest in bumblebee extinction.
I've got no interest in major sports events.
I've got no interest in twitterstorm friction.
Or infomercials on how to get hench.

Got no interest in batrachomyomachy,
or in proxy batrachomyomachy
between Frog League's galanty spider army
& mice-trained & funded earwig insurgency.

Who'll win Strictly, who'll win Syria?
What really goes down in the Ministry
of the Interior?
Does myriad of Miriams mean the more the myria?
Will readers ever eyebibe my biblia abiblia?

Apathy? Yeah. No. Me?
Does Ray Mears **** in the woods?
2 fingers 'stead of 2 hoots? Is oldschooltie
of Pope Emeritus Devil Dog ****** Youth?

Like comeback cul-de-sac of Sigue Sigue
Sputnik or Gay Dad, conclusion's foregone:
from all globallocks infer good Earth stravaiged,
testicularcancer twin planet to us abandoned.

When it comes to thinking 'bout anything but my baby...
now Marvin's murdered by me more than 3rd rock solid
w/ mine, confirming findings of 2010 survey
that UK's most content folk are found in Norwich,

pigging out on pizza in front of the idiotbox
w/ their S.O. Shockingly desensitised now my
stake in humanity's love's primecut: a paradox.
Lovely tunnelvision, schmaltzy oblivion, hormonal

Eros & Thanatos sitting in a tree...
Or in echo chamber built for two, echochambermaid
Unobvs reverb of sweet nothings' honeydripping nihilism
of countless folies a deux virgule quatre: atomisation.

Before domestic bliss cult of mutual monomania
decrees we lovers shrug our heartshaped shoulders
& to closed loop of googooeyes go couple-cloistered,
I'll do the world one more favour, vote Labour.
Home is t/ telepathic folkballad silvercrooned
to my silvermatter by that rotund Hermes,  frozund Mercury,
albino Mr.Man, Our Moon. Eerie ivory intimation I'm already
home, here on this eigengrau cyclepath
by t/ jaundiced fields just past
Marlpit ironbridge, where sickly Wensum splutters
into a polluted ditch, next to black herbaceous border,
that may immure but cannot olfactorily obscure, inure
one's snotlocker against sloughboattochinabound
mercaptang of t/ Council Tip.

Nominal greenspace w/ brownfield ambience,
wastrel woods, where I am quite at home
is Marriot's Way about midnite, when hushwings hoot
& t/ local ****** calls it a nite, afflicted let us pray
w/ karmic droop. Nitecycling home thru my true home,
these scabby woods that poetically jostle up
my ancestral ******* Vikingblood, as reflective oversocks
get sploshed by my birthright turnip mud.
Housebroken by Woden, or maybe just
grewup slobberedover by Black Shuck
- O Shuckie duckie, mwah mwah!
& Diana t/ Hunter was my Pa.
Here's multiple choice quizzler f/ nil pwah:

is Our Sun, stella domestica:
(a) a Jewish mother from t/ planet Krypton
      readybreking Kal-el as she henrykvells
(b)a slumlandlord w/ a weathermachine,
     who serves eviction notices of drought & famine
or (c) a ******* foreigner stowedaway upon
      a resonant gravitational bounce off t/ Milky Way's
      Spiral Arm from 2000 lightyearsago, coming over here
      from Stellar Cluster M67, making all this trouble?
Marlpit iron bridge, Marriot's Way = Norwich landmarks
Black Shuck = the Hound of the Baskervilles of Norfolk

— The End —