C J 2 3 F U K

C J 2 3 F U K

 

Oh no, no, no…fuck me, yes

you’ll get terminally depressed

in 23F, CJ, UK,

strangling your final sweat

with underarm roll on death.

 

So many hyperactive pricks,

tray table backseat slammers

with double bad grammar,

adenoidal nasal sprayers,

video game phone players,

angry bird candy crushers

sporting thyroid sinus problems

and glands, oh glands, oh glands,

la, la, la, la, lardy cake glands

up down, in out, trough-snouts

they’re shaking it, shaking it;

rattling at your dentures,

fracking for the good flesh,

fucking with your eye teeth

until you’ll lacerate your lips,

flay your skin, trays gripped,

take more than a fair share of seat

with rollover chelsea bun buttocks;

 stink of cheese and onion, reeks

of crisps, squeezes bulk,

crushes flab, oh, it’s trad, dad,

sucking soy and breaking bad,

look, he's wishing she was a lad,

foaming froth from toothpaste tubes

set, mottled hard, a backyard

in grim unwashed skin, a grin; 

back-throated candlestick mucus snort,

what they speak they was not taught,

find me front seated lecture hauled

beneath the university of life,

squitting silent fatty acid tissues

and gashed solenoid adenoids,

have procured one metal stick,

only one, never two,

for only one will ever do

sourced from their pork butcher

or some local G.P. clinic

who signed an obligatory sicknote

with rolling eyes and rolling sighs

that a cynic never read nor wrote,

eyes you up for the trip

opens bomb bay doors, lets rip.

 

Our suspended catering service

was abandoned in cars F to J,

dispense apologies from somewhere

and two brown fingers for free,

just suck on piss warm water

in plastic bottles, passed round

to wash away despairing frown,

soothe last night’s hangover,

homemade Bailey’s, condensed milk

and eggnog mixture,

failing heart a permanent fixture,

wheels rattle under trundled cases,

pinched faces, plastered hair

casting around for seats

that are not there.

 

Then lumbered with them

for the duration

like two outsized pairs of tits

on your trestle paneled fence sit,

all creeping brambles

and sticking thorns,

in thick accents spray thick thoughts,

spout everything what TikTok taught,

pointless to ignore, it’s sod’s law,

facile views, they’re keeping score,

open floor, swallow me; I’m feeling raw,

I’m looking for the exit door,

but London is still

a million million miles or more,

louder, louder bleat I phones,

they need you to know, be aware

somebody cares, they’re not alone,

they drone, they drone, they drone, they drone

witless words, the bleeding obvious,

spraying germs, looking gormless,

without a fucking trace of remorse.

 

Choke your airspace,

fill your headspace,

never heard of liminal space,

so take that look from off your face,

and listen to my anecdotes,

my feeble fucking jokes,

here's no hint of irony,

side jabbers, arm grabbers,

spittle shooting mouth blabbers,

wrap your tongue around

all the news that’s fit to burst,

blood pressure goes from bad to worse,

and if they know

you’ll hear it first

like, oh look, fish and chips,

our country's not a sinking ship,

here's a fucking YouTube clip,

too many of them stealing jobs,

from them snowflakes and yobs,

send them back, Europe's crap,

I'd give them all a well-earned slap,

saw that film what's doing the rounds,

there are silent parrots and sick dogs

so give two pounds, give two pounds,

what’s two pounds a fucking month

and I got luncheon meat for lunch,

with other such points of interest,

missing half their teeth

and lumps of hair, and tons of grief,

oh, so much, and opinions

that drizzle like watered soap;

no lather no matter how hard you rinse,

drips on brown stained withered jeans,

from arse's cleft, still some left,

stays slack, stays flaccid, stays limp,

it’s potted inside there like a shrimp,

sorry sweetheart, but look:

here’s a self-satisfied hiss of ‘yes!’

from behind my blank mask;

doubtful if you read a book

instead of asking why, or guess

at grunts of effort, grunts of crisis,

grunts of satisfied self-righteous,

backchannel noise, backchannel snot,

they’re either freezing cold or hot

and isn’t the fucking weather awful or not,

they’ll swap it for a Freeview box.

Oh, yes, yes, yes…fuck me no,

together endless will you go,

in 23F, CJ, UK,

remember well on each long day

while you’re peering up from the abyss  

at those that live in ignorant bliss.