Ding Dong Bell

 Ding Dong Bell

 

Neither you or I are even to blame,

but it came down to it all the same:

Barbed wire reprisals and comeback attack,

with far more tits than tat,

although, combing through scrawling crap

and amongst the table scraps,

there was no lack 

of tawdry, bottom feeding, tasteless flack,

and doesn’t it shriek volumes

about the perpetrators?

Backstabbing turncoat traitors both,

all seeing, all doing, cluster munitions,

scrutinise media for stray social admissions,

like a filibuster in cannot trust her,

cannot trust him, with skin, paper thin,

and smiles so weak they did quake.

Let fly our unexploded ordnance,

in a mass campaign of carpet bombs,

croon weeping panoply of war songs,

scream headlines like ‘Gotcha!’ all over

the flag white milk cliffs of Dover.

Like hanging up my two pinata

then carpet beat the shit out of that,

sneaking snakes, 

fanged with creeping past tenses,

striking hard in reckless offensives,

their venom callous

that flows up, viscous bile from stiff gut,

recycling, pumping, recycling,

pumping, in cracked bitternut child senses,

punching out smiling teeth of pretence,

scattershot drugs of bottled-up contents.

Now cat’s eyes look up from the bottom,

turned something good to something rotten,

it twists its torment in the dark:

mostly gone but not forgotten.