"All at cruel sea, our century, the beauty of this misery,
Bugger me!, sodomy and two-faced monogamy,
all aboard the Fairy Molest, galleon of cult and
the emancipated mystery of this cunting gyratory.”
Saint Valentine
dazed the massacred,
harpooning the heartbroken;
Christingle, pocked marks, peppered
the wretched.
bent blaggers and old tarts,
seeking queen of hearts loving,
in the shadier parts,
of public bogs
and desolation parks.
Rose thorns embed,
violence and hard-core blue,
auto erotic strangulation
Baby, I’m so hung-up on you.
in recent memory, silicon women with spectacular bleached teeth,
gnashing and dogging with teams of steroid boosted super stars,
noshing needles on the back seats of nitro assisted super cars.
loving, loathing and the extraordinary stripping of skin,
blubbering hyperbolic emotion, up to, and over the brim.
Botox bubblers pump in plastic Jacuzzi cauldrons;
double teaming in oceans of black tar, loaded dreams
quixotic liaisons boiling beneath the deep heat
of party popper steam machines.
“Prison barge, gymnasia, a slave ship, lost in space,
abandoned by the boat builder - absconder; out of his face
cast adrift and out of this place.”
Kleenex tissue sails, the fishermen’s friend, whopping tails and mounting naval trawlers,
cabin boy toys, slopping out lockups and elastic chests, anchored to shark baited breaths.
Uncanny coincidences and grievous fleshly assaults occur in damp déjà vu corners,
unreported lower deck shenanigans overflow brutal baptisms, held under –
the influence of liberation front members, filming, swashbuckling sluts and pirate players
- Soreness in Revolt (the snuff movie).
a mandatory morbid mutiny; scrutinised by the coastguard of bitter widows blowing kisses;
secretly policed by Dutch preachers, who fly dead martyrs, like diamond kite fishes.
downstream bent buccaneers cross scabbards and plank yank googlers.
Porn hubbed and spankwired bandits’, hell bent on grooming babes and well-hung buglers.
Dry land, land locked, crooked blunderbusses - go off, half cocked.
salubrious pubs or working men's clubs, the reckless splashing of card and coin,
the new-fangled nuclear family, burnished in the basement loin; curb crawlers loiter
amid the red light sanctuary of a district patrolled by fresh-faced delinquent guys and rag dolls;
nonsensically warm hearted gangs pressed jovial brawlers into crisp packets
(for easy pickings) sea salt and vinegar tits, pissing blood into soda cans
and playing sweetheart games, on the swing of the reaper and his Inevitable final flay,
floundering in one another’s
molested recollections, soliciting solace, clinging to their collapsing world, their minds.
Oliver (the sea urchin) attacked the workhouse system with permed and curly Cleopatra whitecaps.
Greyhound and whippet owners picketed "gentleman's clubs”. Gesticulating placards bearing
a realistic portrayal of an African antichrist, donning a worm ridden baseball bat (peg leg pederast)
they picket the "VIP headquarters”, all the while, the criminal underclass occupants
"capture the zeitgeist" in exclusive hot tubs
Thumping dirtiness right up the arse!
Hoodlums, sporting knee length leather straightjackets, prevent the biting wind from snapping their legs in half, much in the same style a horse might routinely wield a jockey’s whip, the door staff did beat this band of miscreant wannabes, reminding them of home, they sucked the full volume of lunglost air clean off of this hurtful stage of humiliation and fame – the shame game.
After Clinging on to the starboard bow of one man’s imagination for over two hundred years , the Artful Dodger, thought to be engaged in birthday celebrations, climbed up into the crow’s nest and sang his heart into a bliss –
"so filthy, so confined,
in the air that died,
to be close to you,
even to your dirt ,
your squalor - my core,
this unity, please,
make me more ".
the RSPCA issued a statement;
"However, slutty or whore like, your pet may be as a person, functionality must always come before fashion and the designer clothing you cherry-pick must represent a new dawn, a post-mortem, or an oral examination by a Corgi registered vetinary surgeon”.
The star-crossed lover met his end,
her deathbed certificate read;
the haemorrhage resulting
from a rupture of the hull
affected meta narration, outlook,
eventually receding into euphoric poetic coquetry.
the tumour evolved, spoke in tongues
of teenage dreams and star struck mariners
lost at sea, drowning in the immorality
of first past the post modernity.
Carbuncular depth charges
are pressed against felons and victims alike
condemned to serve life sentences
consecutively confined
to the naked bone rigging
of the
fairy molest;
when I am inside your vessel – I am your captain
speaking (sea below)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hBIArwpPknQ
