Those fools woke up to cultural revolution, things miraculously began to turn upside down.  Streetwise usurped elitist education – watching Roodbwoy wear innovation’s crown.  Time gradually exposed heinous police corruption, how; they pulled wool over Hillsborough’s passive generation – collaborated with government, to foil Scargill’s social insurrection; cruelly consigning ghettoes, to: poverty, prostitution and hungry-belly starvation.  History’s pages were tapered and shamefully soiled, with unforgettable lies as deceptive as a serpent’s pulsing coil.

Politics has become despicable procedure, abusing poetics with standard anathema.  It’s very easy to deceive an unlearned electorate, Brexit architects conceived falsehood, obviously deliberate.  They’ve licensed an obnoxiously rampant populace, foolishly incensed conscientiously biased confederates.  Europe is an unacceptable beast, backing British is the very least local communities expect.  At all cost wholesale migration must cease, now they treat Europeans with complete disrespect.

Things have really changed a wicked way, middle class goody-goodies have started slumming it when they venture out to play.  Certain fuddy-duddies are coming on very strong, taking delight in gutter language and sensationally doing things wrong.  Life isn’t what it used to be and, no!  It will never be what we expected to see; street etiquette has taken over, kids are tired of those – pretend we like it – plastic, papered schemes.  Now the youth eye-up one another – hard faced like sharpened granite – planning to count and store-up bundles of cash-crop green.

Look Roodbwoy!  Street-life’s gone viral; ghetto people populate Facebook, pushing-out vibes on structured instrumentals, slamming it right and creaming the hook.  This natural reaction took place, to balance society’s unfair odds; culture has assimilated race and cynically erected psychic colour-bar-pods, belligerently squeezing into our haloed space, critically waging media-sponsored war.  Those pretentious money-laden clods, secretly; smoke the wickedest Sensimillia and worship cocaine addicted earth-gods.

 

Poesy: the dirty little stop-out ..

Poesy failed to come home last night.  I tossed and turned until first light, waiting to hear that click – in the lock – and the clunk of the door-handle’s turn.  She’s been baiting acute fear, like the ticking of a distinctly evasive clock, convulsively aggravating a grievous tear in my unstable mind. Causing an unsympathetic bind, to make my heart burn.  Her syntactical vein has been abrasive and annoyingly haphazard, oh; the heartrending pain, so conducive to satisfying ambitious bards and, the literary output we crave and desire.

It was all I could do, to stop jealous pangs of my inconsolable thoughts; feverishly wielding my pen, to echoes of ‘I love you, I love you,’ as suspension hangs a tightening noose around my unenviable heart, foolishly shielding broken throes of dismissive, ‘I do, I dos.’  I mean, she oozed so fluently word perfect, completely in vogue with apparent, assimilated disinterest – so rhythmically in tune, her rejection – ultimately – declared so untimely, and soon.  I hated her for that fleeting, precise second when perturbed minds turn enviously green; instinctively berated her, on meeting her concise and fecund suitor, whose; superb rhymes were elaborately embellished, excessively adroit and very clean.

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