
Photo by David McEachan on Pexels.com
Photo by David McEachan on Pexels.com
Photo by Serkan Göktay on Pexels.com
You have nothing to apologise for because you are an anointed Lord of barrow boys made good.
I picture you with those resourceful cockney boys eating jellied eels and cracking jokes about Sam Fox with her tits out
Wrapping golden delicious in Linda Lusardi and Melinda Messengers tits nothing not funny or cliched about that at all, not sorry you’re a Lord and I a poet
We are far too important to be held to account for the sensitive tweeters so I knocked together a poem like a pass from a beach salesman and national footballer,
Nothing at all derogatory about a cockney eating jellied eels or a Senegalese lucky lucky man selling knocked off goods to women with their tits out and beer swigging lads from Blighty.
To defend a joke is like a Ronaldo cross into the box of a shit side where the hapless white defender scores an own goal when it deflects off his mouth just unlucky nothing offensive just very defensive.
In nineteen eighty eight on Alcudia beach a black man with yellow sunglasses sold rip off Amstrad rasta blasters and he must have been the father of the Senegal striker coz you said so Lord Sugar.
When you were knighted by the Queen in stolen Indian diamonds I bet you both had a right old laff one cockney to another and I bet you said you were just a humble barrow boy done good,
I bet the black servant of the queen ran back to the kitchen to check the score of Senegal Vs Nigeria to see how the beach salesman and footballers got on at the world cup derby.
I bet the waiter said yes boss to Prince Phillip as he suggested the electricity must have been done by a wide eyed chinaman but this is not racist at all when a royal says so but quirky.
Don’t be so serious for goodness sake that Lord Sugar is a national treasure like the counterfeit crown the queen wears as she knights barrow boys and white boys and occasionally war criminals.
Don’t be so serious I mean this as a joke in prose and it has to be dead clever and funny because I am a poet earning zero point zero zero zero zero zero per cent of Lord Sugar
Now aint that fuckin funny when you think about it. Maybe one day I’ll fly to Alicante and hitch a ride to Marbella and hang out with Al at his posh gaff and wear Ray Bans
As the Senegal national football team sell knock off Amstrad shite to white people wanting to look as black as possible then celebrate silicon as the natural woman is booed like Argentina off the pitch.
I’m so fuckin funny but if it offends you then I’ll delete my comments like migrant children in Texas and foil.
To work out immigration learn American math.
Write prime numbers on secondary sapiens,
divide mother from half weaned babe
multiply by thousand and whatever.
I keep getting the wrong answer
= American Stalag 24.
I was told to go fuck myself by Eugene in Ohio
“We kicked your sorry English asses man”
I must confess a redcoat sang me sky
It was a Robin on Mr Sandhu’s wall
He leaves chicken wings there
All the migrant birds come
I have heard Ohio Eugene.
I was told to go fuck my mother by a mother in Tampa,
She told me “We saved your asses from Hitler”
I want to save her from herself and the babe,
Yes the babe I saw at the end of the world
This is where pilgrims vanish in chalk,
Like children of Columbine
Shooting up to forget.
I had a dream that Melania Trump prayed to a blond Jesus,
And Jesus from Mexico begged for his boy back,
Give me back my boy, give me back Jesus
I had a dream that Eugene fucked me
He was wearing a red coat singing
America the beautiful,
a crow-crake woke me
Your bones into mine Spread out like candlelit halls A dark vastness stilled. Your tongue in my mouth A wet flame engulfing me Dark petering out. My blood in your blood Oil of your oil on white canvass We wane as moon hyde. We slept in sheepskin Wolf inside lamb wailing I am vast like the hall inside a cello.
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“Wisdom has built her house; she has set up its seven pillars.” Proverbs 9/1
At the Grenfell summit rolls London cumulus
These make do for mountains we left in Jamaica
I wear a necklace of aeroplanes and close my eyes to land.
I do not know why my wife bought net curtains and hooks
We live twenty-two floors up and only God can see us
Perhaps he can see into our bedroom, clever wife.
A fire engine shoots through roads like a street mosquito,
Blood red it drips over the snaky Thames then vanishes,
People disappear from here all the time in a puff of smoke.
Tonight, when you’re home I will listen to my son kick your ball,
Hear your water bathe his red body and if I am lucky
I will see his fingers scroll your skin like a love letter.
I am in two minds whether to change my nightshift to morning,
We need the money so I will go out to work, yes, it is done
Tonight, I will marinade chicken thighs for you wife.
At the Grenfell summit we sway in siren lights to dead man’s jazz,
I glue the spine of your grandmother’s gospel according to Ava
It is important to pray with a bible that isn’t broken in half.