Too Long; Don't Read 

        Rant mode ON/It's international
    shite day ladies & gentlemen, let's examine
its stercoraceous nature, we have future seeds we need
        to grow out of that muck. First though, this:
    everyone likes a good fart gag Donnie but fuckwit
            you're not funny. I say
shit when I see you & that's about it but I should say more
    so I wrote it down short for the man who doesn't like reading
even his briefings, I aim to please. The problem is you
        still couldn't finish paragraph one,
                your idea of literature
            stuck at the Very Hungry
        Tapeworm, with all those nice pictures and
a relatable central character. Mine is a bit more complex,
    I know long words like flatulent arsehole & that
            seems appropriate, trump.

    Look at your friends, if that's what you call them: the trouble
        with floating turds is that bits drop off,
Stevie & Mikey & Kellyanne, all the other sewage
    bobbing about in the bowl where Donnie squats,
            fouling the water -- away
    to the methane converter with the lot of them! One
        particular clagnut has stolen my name
so let me be perfectly clear on this: Sean, you unutterable stench,
    you're nothing of mine. The syllables Spicer belong
            to people who are on their worst days
        people at least. I hereby amend
    your surname to Shitpipe, it suits you a great deal better,
            the crap dropping out of your gob
                deceives the deluded
        but they want to believe & you shouldn't believe
just out of wanting, a little evidence helps. No evidence
    proves that Donnie is getting a victory blumpkin
            right now; some evidence suggests
        that everyone else on earth is wondering
    what the fuck are you for, King Shit? And Tessie the Turkey,
        going gobble gobble under his desk,
            gets one answer. It sucks.

        Removing from sewer to midden, Tessie
mops off her wattles & preens, while Jerry the experimental ostrich
    wraps himself up in tinfoil, the better to hide
            in the slaughterhouse back of the dunghill
with the rest of the turkeys who voted for Christmas. No gifts for us,
    not from the filthy Continong, they squawk:
        we want a moat to shit in. We want
three hundred & fifty million in unmarked grain delivered
            by noon last Tuesday. They're getting
    the usual onion & bundle of sage up the backside,
a sudden absence of plumage & presence of oven, they're done
    good & brown & we all roast with them. I
am only a rat, & I'm not sympathetic. I know the intention
        was green & pleasant, not this feculent
            seething barnyard, but really
    what were you thinking? Were you thinking? Which
particular fib was it addled your turkey noggins? Why
        do this to yourselves? Poor silly paupers,
    you have handed us over bound to the money; it wasn't
            what you were after but anyway
        there's no more choice in the matter, crepitant
            fellmongers tell us: a third of
                the people have spoken.

        Enough with the victims already, the villains
    pocket the cash & move abroad & say
I did not fail, in England. Those binbags of ordure, Farmer
    Niggle Farridge & Boris who basted the turkeys
            to perdition, noting but plausible
carnivorous grins with no positive use; Deflatable Dave
        & Sniffy George, the Boys Blunder,
cowering under the privy, they know what they done; Tessie
        again, encrusted with unguessable crud and
    quivering into the future, by fiat; from me,
to you, no respect. I regret you impending fruit, rotten
        times encouraging fungus like you lot:
    Phallus Impudicus, the Unashamable Dick
            or Stinkhorn. The rest of the men
                & women who swore
        they would string themselves up for their sweethearts & they
            said okay then creep from the green room,
    grey-faced & grinning miserable. They mean to be wrong
        whatever, with votes to consider, so the noose
drops its cretinous guts over Westminster Hall & this whim is
    binding. That's it for free movement. In Little Blighty
        on the Down we are proneboned & proper submissive.

            The money says you have to pay for
    my party at the end of the world & no you can't
        go to the windfarm, the maintenance budget
got blown on bubbles & gack & a slurry tanker went steaming
            straight through the middle & honestly
        fuck you. Those of us here on the edge
            of the airscrew-effluent interface
    wipe; but dirty weather we summoned ourselves
is hurrying in from every point of the compass. We are
        sunk in the mire already; there's more
            coming down; & this is so much
        splenetic guff. I wanted to say
    these are evil days people, let's be better, but
the facts of that matter exist in potential while the alternative
    farts in our faces & tells us enjoy this shit--
            forgive me I haven't forgotten
                myself I say
            I say I say I say
                my joke's got no punchline.
            How does it fall? Flat.

18.1.17-21.2.17

State of the Nation Bulletin

Burning gold has put holes in our brains, no talking now: the landscape is
            fixed & that wind would just blow over. Instead,
survive where the map show no mythical creatures but reads here be
            things standing around in shoes. They cannot conjure
characters, only unthinkable liquids slopped into blow-moulded
            copies of bodies; which imaginary people
are colour-coded to simplify reference, the whole abysmal
            metaphor exhibited as fact. Don’t tell me
a wizard did it, magic is distraction & poverty is
            theft & I have nothing in my pockets.

Who belongs to this information? One of the scruffs, disorderly
            inventor of invisible systems, I persist
in a box to one side, but a box; & call that living. Visitors
            praise the cookery, politely ignore the grot,
forge their unsteady way homeward on late-night trains; & somewhere close,
            entities on the organisational chart
mutter together. Step over the heaps of paper in the hall and
            come & get drunk, my optimist friend, insisting
the glass is half-empty but at least there’s a glass. The problem is
            you’re wrong, this government circular says
don’t even think about it, shut up & watch while all that is solid
            melts into air, singing did those feet & so on.

We never ventured near their private conversation, this is our
            fault, we were engrossed in television, faces
dissolved by the glow. Wholly sublimed, we left it to our chosen
            delegates on earth, in masterly tailoring,
who knew about the mutual life but saucer-eyed & sniffing
            shrugged off that youthful nonsense for a higher
power: some enormous actuary crouched on a cloud accounting
            us the possessions. It continues the noble
habit of Athenian democracy exclusively upheld
            by slaveowners, expensively-educated
ignorance in empty suits inhabiting our capital, gaze
            trained towards godhead: look at the money, it is
more important than people. No I don’t like the place, but still remain
            an Englishman from split ends to athlete’s foot.

This may be just so much rancour. The last argument is entered
            by more ordinary legislators, & being
powerless & afraid, my self-constructions are nothing but
            sentiment, & a pose. I can only picture
a subject like the just city, while plausible destroyers
            finish the project for real: beware of this
dun & unpleasant enclosure, with sign by the gate saying get
            lost. There is no one who wants to look after you.

(6/3/15-22/4/15)