The Bishopbridge Brigade

 

The lares & penates of a Dum Dum Boy:

drained 'Jamaican for bacons' & fagnolia niknaks;

pins & skizlas & analogue photos of the estranged,

exorcised w/ a staggerer's staggered, grim mimosa.

Ah, morning gasp of fagash squash

to cleanse the palate before

2 litres of Larkman champagne.

Typical Bishopbridge binimalist wet hostel environment.

 

Kitchencupboards of kryptonoat, smaquamarine

greaterspeckled bread. Floordrobe flesh poverty

defoliated. In gypo slippers, Franionstein's Frogger

providentially jaywalks to the p-shop,

9lived Moses parting the chrome.

 

O that booze-only-numbs bezonian

smokes butts l/ an electric commode!

After slurping a dimp foraged

from the whac-a-weed pavement,

he expectorates a 'ja'-robbed Swede Gunner 

(L'ungberg). His sepia corneas 

strandscour 

his fellow Bishopbridge brigands, 

his community of co-

dependents, Salvation Army pickings.

 

Every zombie might be a Lazarazombie,

but no drewer's brooping vasectomeat so dead

as brutalised glaze brandishing brew's toll.

 

Hardplace rockpools waterboarded'em 

Kizmet's hardnuts.

Skizmet and Swizmet

gavaged 'em hard cheese

until it nerfed hearts. 

 

Bojovian bishops begrudge liquid suicides

2 penn'orth or indeed 1 poun'orth of prompt

p-shop poison, fizzy fin de moi-meme for

the vanless white trash. Even some Christlike humanists

hold it counterproductive to give alms

for selfharm. But in the Void before Creation,

wasn't God destitute? Yet His agency was not denied.

& so here we are.

 

Ariston men hydor, but addiction is a hydra,

a ferocity of forking cravings. Feralcity

centre's been totalled by an austeroid

the doctor winds of an old Labour council could not

blow offcourse, nor air the skint stink from these 

explicit streets.

 

Skid row's a bit on the nose.

Scooze me mate, can you spare 97p for busfare/

Rosie Lee/ nepenthe? Compassion is rare,

so round it up to a pound, pricelessly.

Gotno rightwinger's urbanmythic limo roundthecorner,

even if there is a roof & some aggressively 

greasy sheets for a liquid 

suicide's shroud overtheroad 

at Bishopbridge House.

 

In actuality the omnipotent bully pulpit

is the billionairepress. Hopeless? Awbless.

OD? Ohdearieme. The billionairepress has grossscope

to scroteface Bishopbrigands

for scapegraces, impoverwishers 

squalording it up in shinfradigs.Doorway 

menace mendicants on jagged rounds 

to endlessly defer an alky's ague

or a junkie's flu.

 

O ye judgy psychomuggle Darthy Maul readers

w/ your bridgeburning bishops, maybe yon 

beghard bagheads & nurps tudgers are

chemicallyinconvenienced because they're

biochemicallychallenged. Maybe 

all it takes is 1 bad omnibus

of problematic episodes (l/ 'Enders

on a Sundaybackintheday). It could be you

in another man's Skazengers.

 

You raising a custard diamond of flame

to the JPS in your gummyrubbled

grin, a Bishopbridge brigand's

barfulous bazoo yowling your blues.

You existentially Chinese snoo-

kered by the monkey on your back,

your edentate darg an indentured blag. 

 

You 1 of the pocketlint people,

outcasted down the back

of Society's sofa politics, 

you praying to Jehobah 

that social cleansers'

hobo hoovers don't desaparecido ya.

 

It could be you preferring the pukelele to violins

when nice narcs play mumcop, dadcop,

plaintively probe 'Why make life shit, well, 

-ter anyway?'

You an internal refugee from some obscene

nurture, some groomer's goldmine, out of your

pannikug butnotdeadyet, an active derelict.

 

Death is the waiting cure

wolvewinos on their psychotichor

survive but w/ a little less diseased future 

to suffer more & more.However, 

there is no sacrosanct gutter, no floor

to howlow 1 has to have fallen before

the billionairepress gang will stop kicking the poor.

 

The Piss is the chemical closer of the poor door.