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I am not the Jesus Christ of Standupcomedy.
I am catlitter & coffeegrounds.
I am not the Elvis of ****.
I am the Spectre of Communism
in a dressinggown.

The banes of the world are the liberals & ponces
if you believe neoliberals & nonces.
Oi, oi! Here comes trouble:
whistleblower troubadour.  
Oi, oi! Here comes trouble:
dialectical rockstar.

I am not the ***** Wonka of Minneapolis.
I am an old cassette whirring to a halt...
klik I am not the Disco Pope.
I am the last pale interesting European scalp.

The banes of the world are the liberals & ponces
if you believe the neoliberals & nonces.
Oi, oi! Here comes trouble:
whistleblower troubadour.  
Oi, oi! Here comes trouble:
dialectical rockstar.

Oi, oi!
Yo slave!
Io, io!
Saveloy.
(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?
Gabriel K Oct 2015
Bottle of Pinot
G and T
arm-in-arm
the walk home
“Let's take it slow”
she goes
slow
-it’s been two years-
but I'm not really
an RnB kinna guy
ain't got the groove the vibe
I'm not like Jodeci
I got two speeds
stop
and go;
but something ain't right
right
out of bed
kitchen
flowers of camomile
the reading-book
Plath
Larkin
Bukowski
maybe not the most romantic maybe
that woulda been more Catullus is it?
Horace
Odes and Epodes
Sappho;
when the sleepy come
it was time
but the feeling'd gone away.
I made a move
onetime
she said “I'm not in the mood”
she said
“not now”
and fell asleep.
06.46
#morningofglory
one hand nests round her leafy form
another forages afield
only
“I'm so hot”
she mumbles
meaning not;
I turn over get up
make green juice
Assam tea;
when she came in the kitchen she was dressed
she didn't want her drink
said “I think I'm gonna go” she said
and left.

— The End —