This is not prose, this is and this is:
He wore inertia on his wrist like a watch,
Moving or not moving his Armani knock off suited arm
As it, seems to be, more likely the case.
Cigarette casually plugged into his lips
Like some sort of electrical appliance.
Children grilled barbecue beef burgers,
On the grating, of the streets.
Sun f*****g red, in the sky.
My, me oh my!
Curb stones, licked with a new layer of paint,
For the f*****g thrill of community initiated,
State vandalism,
Flags hanging draped, tattered on lamppost.
The Union Jack,
The UDA,
The UVF.
Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
All in a state of,
Catatonic withdrawal symptoms from arms!
All, peevishly playing one up man ship against the other.
You know I once,
you know I once only bigger,
you know I once even bigger than the rest of you b******s.
That died years ago, gladly.
The knock off Armani suited B*****d:
Left with a handful of cigarette stubs,
A burnt out Ford Capri and mighty huge f*****g hang over.
Mighty fine f**k he was indeed.
Took me out many an adventure,
Mostly ending up with the both of us
Caught in a corner throwing stones at the passersby,
Throwing bricks off highway overpasses,
Throwing crude pick up lines at pretty blondes,
You know the type! Oh yes.
“What about, you, me, her and him?”
We’ll obviously we didn’t give a s**t, but come on....
“What about, you, me, her and him?”
My gratification,
Her gratification,
His gratification.
The entire, bloody world’s gratification.
Pass me the sick bucket,
I’ll go puke a little in my mouth.
Why yes of course! Why yes of course!
And he stands,
Knock off Armani suited b*****d that he is!
Cheeky grin plastered on his bearded visage-
Children grilling barbecued beef burgers on the street grating!
It’s a street party! What are we celebrating?
The immediate farewell to the- farewell to Arms!
This is war boy,
Pick up your sticks pick up your stones,
Drink a little come on this is war!
Pro-Government, Anti-establishment encouraged war.
S**t smeared angrily, peacefully along the walls.
Modern Art?
Modern Protest?
Classic starvation.
Hungrily fishing for compliments....
Hungrily starving in disdain.....
Hungrily bloated with confusion....
S**t smeared along the walls, across the floor-
Picasso baby, Da-Vinci honey, Salvador Dali surely?
“No Surrender,” of the English tongue.
“No Surrender,” of our elderly mother.
“No Surrender,” to the monkeys dressed as men.
“No, no, no,” and a hundred more years of illicit, duplicite, secret sexual rendezvous!
Behind the bike sheds, behind the church yards, from behind-
“Oh God just the way I like it darling.”
Back handed, handouts for dirty dealings.
All played out for hard,
harder, harder, harder earned rewards.
You, me, the Provo and the Big Chief! All waiting writhing silently aloud, to see which one of us will meet the same fate as Randle drooling in the corner!
“Mary Mother of God let it be her not me.”
“Mary Mother of God let it be him and not me.”
“Mary Mother of God let it be them and not me.”
“Mary Mother of God let it be me and not we.”
Funny thing is. Funny thing is! The Armani knock off suited b*****d is out there, painting the peace lines!
While I’m in her swallowing down pills to allow the night wardens a night of rest!
Red, white, blue.
Green, white, gold.
“Goddamn the Huns,” scrawled across the walls,
I agree Attila was a prick!
Sitting round stoically,
Silently pondering what to do next,
What to say next, who to refuse next!
Perhaps we could agree to disagree,
Or agree to agree which would be better for all of us!
I want my way, as much as,
You want your way!
But you can’t be in my dreams-
Because I refuse to be in your dreams!
Always gratified sexually by the way old men grumble stubbornly! So this is heaven...
“No, no, no,” and a hundred more years of,
Smoke ash, drumming,
Drumming,
Drumming,
Shrill flutes and stones being hurled over barred wires!
This is my inheritance I shall take it in both sweaty palms.
We shall march as we delight in pissing off the locals, North to South, East to West!
What a f*****g thrill it is too!
Quasi Pseudo Nationalist,
Quasi Pseudo Unionist,
Quasi Pseudo Abortionists,
Quasi Pseudo Pro choice,
Quasi Pseudo Bull s**t.
I know nothing!
Quasi Pseudo intellectual-
Hah give me a break.
I know nothing,
but still feel entitled due to my superiority complex to wrap your knuckles for the next hundred years!
“No, no, no,” and so on for the next hundred years bleeding knuckles and my dictionary covered in blood
“Ite ad Evangelium Domini annuntiandum.”
Divine right and all the other associated bollocks!
Permission to f**k with what you wish sent down from the
Heavens by the big cheese himself!
A prayer for hundreds of generations tied to the rock!
Celibacy casting dark urges under the skin.
Celibacy masking the differences between man and boy.
Celibacy eating away at your c**k,
Until it is rammed feverishly down the throats of
Poor choir boys, pretty in the light of the stain glass windows.
God, yes, God, yes, God, yes, yes, yes!
Celibacy forcing one last mighty wedge between you and the god you wish
To serve.
Celibacy a lame excuse for the monstrous nature of
Your madness.
“Ite ad Evangelium Domini annuntiandum.”
Quasi Pseudo Humanitarianism,
The one last refuge for the soul,
The one last refuge for the soul sold into a hard nights labour,
Breaking rocks,
Digging graves,
All for the mother land where ever that may happen to be!
Utopia and other associated myths,
Of a perfect society!
Go f**k yourself while doodling over Plato’s Republic!
The one last haven for the unthinking thinking man!
Quasi Pseudo Politics
Quasi Pseudo Christianity
Quasi Pseudo Celebrity-
Martyr in my own head
Martyr in my own head.
“Welcome to the depths darling, dark an as unassuming as they may seem to be.”
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