When I was a kid, round here
purple sweet peas carpeted common ground.
Thick, and ripe for picking
in their depths we found
all manner of detritus,
single shoes and old **** mags.
My friends and I went roaming
with our secrets and five ****.

Down on Slade Green marshes
fearless urban rangers,
ankle deep in water
never minding dangers.

Our private wilderness so bloomed
and we sank into its mire.
Running, jumping, singing, shouting
our youth ablaze, on fire.

Untouched as we believed it
that ground had seen its share,
of blood and fear and wanting,
we didn't know (or care).

Needles in emplacements
left by no one soldier brave.
****** was young back then,
at least, around our way.

In my peaceful ignorance
of 'paedos' underground,
I hid among the rusting hulks
waiting to be found.

Underneath the tower block,
the thirteenth floor my home,
a dragon in the ******* chute!
Imagination sown.

Each time that the fire brigade
came screaming to a halt,
to extinguish yet another mischief
for which none would be caught.

Our little speck of landing
Mrs Kingsley kept so clean,
a bizzy lizzy at her door
she visits me in dreams.

Skin shiny over knuckles
a worn-thin wedding band.
Her flowery dress, neatly pressed,
a duster in her hand.

And I guess she's been dead years now.
She was old as could be then.
I never knew, the day we moved,
I'd not see her face again.

But, move we did,
from 'the flats', to number ninety-nine.
We had gardens - front AND back -
my own bedroom, yes! All mine!

From the windows of our council house
the world changed, all around.
The sweet peas were uprooted,
houses claimed my common ground.

So, I don't own it any more,
if I ever did.
But home is home, wherever,
inside I'm still that kid.

Who ran and jumped and shouted,
a childhood held dear,
and though I think "I've come so far"
my life began round here.

There is no place in this modern age, it seems.
No "I could if I would and wouldn't if I couldn't"
Or some other convoluted phrase of a pod. Now
Getting out your phone is sufficient
To show to another some ghastly memes
Puerile goldmines, or else perhaps
Some comic vines
Or worser still, oh dear me
Some animal *******

Now nothing shocks if not in the flesh
News of paedos on TV
Where used to haunt old sir Jimmy
Elicits now some some disinterested grunt, whilst genocide
Suffers horribly from being juxtaposed
With the football scores.

If nothing shocks, if nothing works
To divert the mind from those ****** tweaks
What good are words to those who still
Prefer to sit and tell a joke
Rather then hopping on the rumour mill
And spew much **** till we all choke.

There's no place for Wildeisms, for how
Can they compete with lolcats?
Wit is no longer about sarcasm and irony
For, dear god, the Americans run the world now,
And is now about a carefully placed
"Yolo", or perhaps a reference to some Facebook trend, or
Some other fatuous *******. It's so **** it drips with ****
So goodbye, dear wit, let me blow you a kiss
And let you know that I say, "**** this,
I'm going to go watch Tommy Cooper videos on youtube."

Me performing on Venus super dome

First song

Australian all let us rejoice
Please help being bullied yeah
Help the women getting *****
That will be a good idea
Help the kids avoid the paedos
Oh yeah watch kids fight back
Like Daniel and William and poor little Cleo
Let the captor get years for
What they did oh yeah
If history has shown us anything
To fight for our kids
Instead of giving one punch attacks
On innocent people no
Fight for our kids
In joyful strains let us sing
Advance australia fair
If you want the other countries to like us yeah
Stop molesting kids

tu nie zaśnie,
  ani mysz...
            ani ćma.

                  here will neither
          fall asleep a mouse,
               or a moth.

brexit is like a *****-brigade
by comparison,
               mama russia said so...
  a bunch of ****** *******
and paedos.

i have to find, but two media outlets
that i think, still have some spine /
integrity left in them:
  the sunday times
and FAMA radio...
    funny... radio...
   all those years amassing a private
collection of records...
buying what i wanted to hear...
but who can blame me,
all the English radio stations
were ****!
      GMT+1h "frequency"
  between the SUT (standard universal
time) hours of 23:00
          and... 07:00 hours...
this radio station
       doesn't allow  graveyard shift
DJ or adverts...
          it's pure,
    unadulterated marathon of song
after song...
    the unexpected journey feeling,
that i always looked for...
when collecting music records...
sure, some eurotrash,
some Anglo bongo-bongo
    in a mental asylum,
   or some other, if not other i.e.
   just when things weren't spicy enough
when Gein was woken from
the **** of the flux:
   being reminded by all the people
with inhibited momentum
he ever interacted with:
   gaze at the paedos of England...
you necrophilia sell-face...
    i guess having ingested
the film the neon demon
"logic" would state the hierarchy:

homosexuality
bisexuality
heterosexuality
pederasty (and older man
and a teen boy, e.g. /
the nuance
of a man and a, ugh,
   legal consenting woman
beyond the age
of consent)
Onan
paedophilia
necrophilia

    ah... but a bee gees
sing-along classic...
seems to posit the necrophilic
a tier above
         the *******...

funny, in a world of so many
phobias...
   there are only two philias...
well, 3, to be exact,
but the third is a prefix love,
while the other two loves
are suffix loves...
mind you...
   i put them in the same
category...
      taboo...
i. e. a concept of a public
intellectual by english,
rather than frech standards...
is someone who talks
freely,
      and by speaking freely:
is a "cognitive" reactionary...
it's already "too late"
when speaking freely replaces
thinking freely... unless...
speaking freely was never
to replace the already non-existent
freedom to think:
to think - and the rarity
of obscure verbs,
like out of vogue words...

but not all newspapers,
and not all radio stations...
with a halfway lit-out
cigarette:
   i guess i could be mistaken
for toking a cigar,
other than a damp filter...

if i will ever make it on
the morning t.v.
session with jeremy kyle....
sure... white trash t.v.
my arument would run
along the lines:

if my former girlfriend thought
i was being irresponsible
trusting her to take th pill,
when she implored
me to take th ****** off
(apparently women stopped
unfathomig uncircumcised
men)...
      well...
    unless both me
and some ******* were
being irresponsible
throwing rubber ducks
into the park lake
to agitate abnormal
homosexuality in mallards
   (what, homosexuality is abnormal
in animal species...
  excuses for men, again,
not mice,
   the hybrid case,
  neither animal, nor god,
what remains
of a bull - god -
   in a chinashop - nature)
   if i were you
   i'd ready myself
   for the Latin variety of
    ab and dis...
when it comes to Norman
           and Easley...
       well yeah...
  casual *** is bound to social
contract?
    funny...
   i once heard that money
is *****...
   for all its squalor in the bank
of Mammon...
  clemency...
    cleanest ***...
   unless of course h.i.v.
    is transmitted ******,
via... gulping down an oyster...
mannig-up from
what Samson left of a temple
we blinded,
a slap in the face
when punching myself 20 times
in the head for a plum
mascara?
   no wonder i shied from
ineractions based on my naivete,
on presuppositions of reciprocate
trust...
     odd...
   but not really...
you ever find atheists
    who spew their anti-belief...
simply because...
   they have managed
   to establish trust...
          ever wonder why belief
is not exactly a coping
mechanism,
    there's nothing
   ontologically a priori about it,
it's ontologically a posteriori...
belief is the spawn *******
child of a lost trust,
of an undermined trust,
and it has so little with imagining
a celestial dictator...
more with a chris rea song...
and so little with the mental asylum
of an atheist's conern / concept
of reimagining the simple...
being told a lie is one thing...
a shallow focus of plateau negation,
squabbles for rumour...
but being taught distrust...
whatever belief resurfaces
from the remnant rubble...
           ah...
             at this point...
trying to elaborate on the jeremy kyle
analogy...
   is a bit like having a fetish
for being castrated,
circumcised, scalped,
   and then hanged on a scaffold
in a public domain.