Angelology
1.
Acutest of angelophanies be hopeful scarecrow
skagony aunt or uncle, who aren’t uncool to covert
a straightedge halo.
Courageously acting the aichmophobe
so nephews and nieces know
never to say ‘never say never’, always eschew
the nirvanic prick of a handheld hornet,
dragnet of a woozer's wings.
O the old H ‘as ‘ad the ‘eave-o, but wot’s ‘arder
than arduous isn’t axing
the hazel needle,
coz getting’ off the th’Afghan brickgum, kickin’
the Karachi hardcandy, isda, boy, Jesusson,
butu, cheva, the Heavyshit, the Hardstuff,
makes th’actual smack withdrawl, the oozing horseflu,
seem a walk in some instructively sharpsboxed park,
next to junking the opiate effect
of that implicit caveat emptor,
the part-promise of Russian roulette euthanasia
that a dealer might dicily deliver a despairer:
the opium-ended freedom from tomorrow.
2.
No angelicity as apposite as teary sclerry
in foetal pose, forlorn and pissed on pissedon floor,
whimpering prayer that Heaven might hoy a hyphen
of lifechangin’ lightening, hyph'ing what’s an alkahest
about the sauce in alkies’ heads to seltzer instead.
O Holyspirit, spike the Sodaclub’s meek drink
with panaceal solvent of soulsintorment,
some antidepressant aurum potabile less of a wrecker
than una botella de la senorittabeater or 12 litres
of uxoricider (that came closest to an apple inside the Spar,
more vicinage than vintage).
But no theo-thunder transubstirnotshaken
will Cana up a cup of carbonated sober,
highballise fromonhigh an innocent aspartame
and acesulfame K mocktail
effervescing up the beezer,
or just, erm, magic mustum int’amrita
of clearheaded amnesia.
O Jesus won’t spend a penny from Heaven to
jazzup flat fizzy, won’t bless a Schweppes
with soft Lethe most likely leaked
when ever Jeez ‘as a jimmy. No, Temperance
hasn’t any vicar nectar trickling from its sleeve
t'tempt our turpsnudger,
dramoscenely quittin' Satan's weewee.
O it was grubby Brit grabbackery
at Goosegreen ‘ad ‘im dramautomatically
Rab C.Nesbitten!
And as the Lord never nobbled the Bettyford board
to afford this supplicant, sip-loco, sip-lokin' cunt
free breakoldhabitsfast ‘n’ board, in the end
he had to prise himself
free from the Sarlaacpiss.
Today a spirit tiddly,
disinhibited wholesomely
on stone cold selfpsychiasis.
Amen to that, hic!
3.
There is no kinder kinda angel than a Glavin or Sembal
Ward patient, saintly Goth flake schizo as a saint,
donating his last deepsea diver, a Mickyfinn he’d
pencilled in for calm time with the killer,
Nickytinn, but instead pokes it as if rewinding
Pauldaniels’ snotrag sleeve snake
into resistant, prematurely wrinkled fist of a selfhitter,
his dubiously discharged, unstable mate.
Goodbyes are gauche at the shrinkclink’s gate,
the selfhitter’s atwitch as his black ’n’ blue brain
rallies to reprieve, repry open one neaful of implosion,
shakes a headstrong hand with his mate, said
blackclad inmate, benevolent and
bananaloafed as a saint.
The self-hitter witters to self and slopes forth,
still batty, outta Hellesdonhospital, Eastanglia’s answer
to Arkhamasylum, tho’ the jokers, riddlers and twofaces there
are the trickcyclists.
4.
No angel more a staple of virtue
than turquoisetitooed adolescent mum,
who was as a teeny well and truly bopped
by a rude in a hotwired Renault.
Now it's the Aughts and she’s glum
and grouched out, truly and well bushed
with toddleritis,yet nevertheless spares her
mewly spewey pooey relative newbie
the rumpswatting wrath, parental gaffe
of a Shoezone slipper tanning in temper.
What an angel she is not to injure
her little highchair Michaelwinner
in the haughty twos, who’ll reach
the legalrecoursethreatening threes
with nary a botty stingle,
For this, one day we'll all be the better,
one less violent repeat offender,
even tho’ this rompersuited ripper
was bratically begging for a belter,
when he did rend his schoolgirl mama’s
fave Shaby Bambles CD single
like a Eucharist pringle.
5.
Is there any angel so actual as th’AIDS-ailin’,
Angl'-arabian faster-than-Fabian Radical Samaritan,
who sparked up a yap with me
in a Health ‘n’ Safety dark age
(not so yore as puffer trains, just the 90s
when puffers had their own carriage)?
This frail railrider was retrovirally ravaged,
but he didn’t dive under Disease’s
allislost auspices, wouldn’t countenance that cloak
until it turned curtain, got the drop on him.
Talking of cloaks for croaking,
any shirt would have billowed
like Shelley's on this shelleton of a man,
but this terminal passenger confided
that the thing which really took the piscuit
about going for a burton
was not a body like birdbones in bedouinrobes.
Rather, the squincy scope it left for living thru
a Revolution or two, or founding one
should the People be round the issue skirtin’.
Giving us a light London Liverpool St.to Norwich,
this stickthin Intercity excursionist
had khaki charisma of a caliph
and a creed somewhere between
Bevan&Beveridge&Christ&Kropotkin.
In that carcino-casino carriage
where we plonkioles who treat our bronchioles shonkiole
used to have the option of being banished,
I attest: there an H.I.V.I.P. from the Heavenlyhost
had an audience.
O had Gabriel gone a bit feral, AWOL, mortal?
Did Raphael or Michael reference Gramsci and Gandi
before me? Who was this Angel of Awkward Questions,
Tasmanian dervish of tender dialectics,
who had th’entire eavesdropping B-car
eating outta his hand like he was Henry V?
Which ARC-angel was this, lambent in that jalopey
body of impotent antibodies,
whose aura of amity switchblazed,
righteously uppity
at the barging paunches of passing banksters,
as those OPECulators and accumulesters amscrayed
for the day their pinstriped crimescene,
the City of Babylon-don?
Italian leather slithered past our cheapseats
in search of complimentary drinks
and broadsheets.
Was it Uzziel or Uriel
gauntallover, whittled to
shortman's spindleshanks
and Skeletor's zygomatic arches
by pitiless illness that pitiless gutterpress
first downgraded to ‘gay plague’?
Was it Ithuriel or Zadkiel
that with the controlled Oxbridge explosiveness
of a Withnail without wassail
(tho' not whiter-than-white,
Utopia's wingman wouldn't wing a racial profile),
did prole-selytise for a Global Bloodless-Or-Next-Best Coup?
He lent a winged whinge to a world of watertreaders
so they might stormsaddle
a workers' whirlpool
to sink the sharktank captaincy
of have-yachts, who have too long at the helm stood.
Even as reality of Chelmsford
hoved into view, I bear witness that that B-car
of wheezers were all in favour
of a velvet or a violent
smash ‘n’ grab by free spirits
and organised labour,
for this seraph slumming it in a bag of bones
had such gift of the gab-riel,
he wore a sumosuit of gravitas that grabbed us.
Tasmaniandervish of a deipnosophist,
even tho' he could only had half a sandwich,
who took us on a lecture tornado of all
the things we’d forgotten
to fight for, tho’ it was just a voyage to Norwich
in the cancerstick compartment,
where future cancerstricken stickmen
selfinflict the hard way Humphreybogart went
(and holding my handleless, holderscaulding
Styrofoam cup of Nescafe gravy,
indeed I did innerquip, 'Here's looking at you, lid!')
Did I watch Zephon blazing
thru the piffling painbarrier, puffable plaster
for his C.F.Bundy Condition cantilevered
between tanin tones of his shampsteads,
a reeferillo of anti-ouch spices?
Tho’ he downplayed his public doob
with an oldhand’s legerdemain
and a Jedimindyourownbusinesstrick
when the ticketinspector thought he caught a whiff.
‘As Agabusofantioch spae-says
in Acts, famine would be the order of the day
in the Reign of the Killer Whale Impaler
knocked off by Nero's mater,’
this Angel of A New Improved Lord chewed the fat,
adding he imagined Agabus would despair
and be a little flattered that
somewhere on God’s earth the facts
on the ground authenticate the general spirit
of his prophecy, apparently eternally.
Hunger persists.
Angl'arabian faster-than-Fabian Radical Samaritan
oozing a certain je ne sais quoi, nah ,
more hypostatic union, whether it was
Gabriel, Jibrail or Michaellandon,
effendi who may be T.A.Gabe with AIDS
set the world to rights as he got the furouk out of London,
past Colchie Manny Ippy Stowie.
You should have seen him suavely rage
against Abughraib, being born a Muslim
of initial scope on his mortal side
this time, but as it’s unislamic
even for angels like him
to bum men, he was bummerrushed,
outta the Umma pushed! O for Allahbotherers,
pudge fackers be haraam,
however much of a zealot for zakah,
however he offers love to his brothers).
The loss of this one a blow to the Proph’ Mo’
if you ask me, but then again if you ask me,
any form’s fair game
when Bashariyya is in such dire need
of angelologies and prophecies
to be embodied, so let there be
millions of Malaika and Nabi!
And some will be in the Navy.
And some must limp heavenwards to
a God more egalitarian than Ibrahim's
via. Norwich Station,
with a body full of virus, leaning on a stick,
a mind full of vaccine for the Virus Anthropic.
6.
Man, there ain’t no angels,
only devils in recovery.
And, man, there ain’t no devils,
only angels on the mend.
Help the rehab seraphim, detox cherubim,
God’s problemchildren.
Even help Satan
if he admits he has a problem.
Coz if it’s angeleatangel,
the Eden we’re needin’ will stay just a jungle.
But it’s harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than for Gianthaystacks to hula thru the eye of a needle.
Harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than a bothbarrel thumbwar for Jeremybeadle.
Harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than for the black pornstar to secure a bankloan
in ‘Boogie Nights’(played by Doncheadle).
Harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than to pitch a pacifistic, Clintless plot
to Sergeileone or Donsiegal.
Harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than to visualise a biopic of a Nobel
Peace Prizewinner starring Stevensegal
(or Clint if it's directed by
Sergeileone or Donsiegal).
Harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than to restrain Shirly B.Daddy
in darbies woven of vermicelli noodles.
Harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than to see Leadbelly's pine trees
for Kurt's used needles.
Harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than to postpone possession of his ‘precious’
for that spellbound shut-in,
troglowhite hobbit formerly known as Smeagal.
Harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than not to bow to janteloven
poaching in front of the goalcoats when
your son’s friend’s dad’s Peter Sch...er,-meekle
(who's not as good in goal as Peterschmeichel,
but Peterschmeekle
keeps the rhymes bonding like lyrical treacle).
Harder for a Tory to get to Heaven
than to keep the rhymes bonding like lyrical treacle
without those rhymes getting progressively more feeble.
But it's still harder for a Tory
to gain entry into Gan
Eden than for Gianthaystacks
to hula thru the eye of a needle
whilst riding a particularly
recalcitrant and bedonkadonk camel,
tho' they don't say 'bedonkdonk' in the Holybeeble
even when it comes to comely camels.
Yea, there's psychopaths and neocons,
terrorists and Tories,
and also friends who would court contempt of court,
who would freely pack a prenobbled jury,
but there ain't no angels and there ain't no devils.
Only evil people who pretend they're good
and good people pretending there's no evil.
Remember, all that is necessary for evil to triumph
is for this poem not to go viral.