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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Diary Notes: Lamentable laissez-faire …the lêche cul is back every cell of her a seething surging cesspool of putrid suck the darling of the Prusso-Lepeniste muck: all degenerate foul-mouthed mean-minded sick: “I’ll grab his private parts thus ———>” her scabrous claw relishing the plucking thrust the latter-day Jeanne d’Arc of the revived Napoleonic Kingdom she's back the neurotic blot on the wailing phoney socialist rocambolesque reverie not even the sparrows hug the hedges now and no birds would sing in this worsted plain Harvey spoils the eclipsed arc the path of Yin is now well marked all celebrating victories before they are won the people the poor the duped left to their wits in sewage pools eddying hopes slipping through dams and dykes the people the poor people always pay for the folly of hoisting fanfaron Pharoahs up above pyramid pinnacles on palanquins Yes, according to the very reverend Swift raiser of the race of Master Horses the world west of the Silk Road now is divided into Yahoos and the Netan-Yahoos the jackboot now at last fits the untrodden masters like a second moulted skin Brexit isles moored and annexed to the new-found Land She's back the lêche cul with her witches’ brooms and mops and pails littered under the portico le portable stuck to her ear proclaiming her arrival yet none gave her a long-awaited send-off spying from a distance “Let’s study the way he slips in and slips out of his cubicle door!” this time from behind the kinder garten glass doors all for the free masonic fortress under foreign fiefdom sun-burnt flesh reeks through the Mall smacks of steak: raw or well-singed the reek of rutting limbs is everywhere loud in queues at milling supermarkets at bus-stops at postal bank self-service guichets come September the unheeding dance and rejoice October and their hinds begin to ache November when the bruises bulges pulled muscles broken promises make no bones of their State the poor always pay for the mistakes and crimes of their masters the moment of truth when thunder is stentorian not a rumble on rails nor a lone drone drawn out streak high in the sky heading for wind-swept isles the hour of reckoning must be at hand “I’ll grab his balls all in one hand: See, what can he do? See!” says she the lêche cul This’s as far as the State can grasp reduced to pilfering reduced to a kind of stunted growth the psyche stuck in a gluey paste holding hands pressing pumping palms waltzing on the Champs Elysée lisping careless whispers: “I’m never gonna dance again… Guilty feet got no rhythm… The way I danced with you oh oh… So wrong that you had to leave me alone!” Let’s plunder the proof he has Then we can all kick his ass (c) T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
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