the
House of Lords is not a Death Camp
said
Alcheringa,
moody
and plucking the steel 3rd string
of
his country and western backpacker guitar,
warbling
about fire-walking and the censorship of money,
surreptitiously
skimming The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte,
and
feeding on a rusted chicken;
Parp
the famous Poet lived by the sea,
mouldy
and farming marijuana,
rodent
memories of a mimsy throat-cutting Scaramouche
from
the Commedia dell’arte of Nantucket1
heating
his brow: his detractors and tractors
hey dickhead …
aped
his polluted air of neoliberal persiflage,
whipped
up a baked cocker spaniel from Seoul Foods,
sneezed
while papering over the Seine,
obscenely
joisting, jousting, and jesting with C. Wee Wee Tinklepleasures,
silver-combed
in honey and sugar of lead;
while
the obese Greek God Dennis
(‛Anyone
for Dennis?’)
lusted
after anything orange,
wore
black at night,
reviled
the Tolpuddle Martyrs while cycling in Lycra,
hopped
egoistically across hot stones in Fiji,
made off with public moolah as Minister for Private Enterprise,
and,
after smearing marmalade on his mouth-organ,
piled
into his ancient Mini and set sail for the horizon.
1‛Nantucket,
a tiny, isolated island off Cape Cod, Massachusetts, is a summer
destination with dune-backed beaches. It’s marked by its unpainted
cedar-shingled buildings, many surrounded by manicured privets. The
wharves and cobblestoned streets of the Town of Nantucket are lined
with restaurants, high-end boutiques and steepled churches. The
town’s Whaling Museum recounts the island’s role as a
19th-century whaling hub.’ (Google).
bloody hilarious!
ReplyDeleteYep what Efi said. Clever and entertaining. Especially love this line: rodent memories of a mimsy throat-cutting Scaramouche
ReplyDeleteSomething wrong with my brain today! But glad you both like it. :)
ReplyDeleteI like it too. It's insane in a good way, and carried me along, enjoying the ride.
ReplyDeleteIt's zany but I'm also with Robert Lowell and his Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket.
ReplyDelete