Touloulysses (Licing Doors,1)
After Jeff Nuttall's 'Two Takes Of The Same Chorus'

Ulysses De La Trek from Azerbaitoo 
always had some razzmarole going down. 
Ulysess De La Trek was of severe aspect, 
life was one another after a thing. 
Ulysess De La Trek fought against the flow, 
the turn of events, the urn of taverns, 
the ashiddent that 'appened when a croupier 
made of papermache got messy at an afterparty 
at the De La Trek rez, went up in saming flambuca! 
Forsaken knownot on his day in court, 
they worked out on a Casio his sentence.
Lesson taught, pleader not far short of 
formaldehyde forgiveness, Jethart mitigation.
Ulysses was a contrition conserve in Conventry,
nevermind the murmurlade spread like murder in the morning.
And plastic cups and saucers because they never break!
Deciduous calender, delease rate of the hole's hold, 
Ulysses dreamed he might move
from Azerbaitoo to Katmandu, 
but he had an omen of the evil that cats do.
Sometime later he was outside the law firm 
of Cobbes and Halvin, listening to 
a passing porter's rue, when an escaped liger 
from the Zanham Boo circus turned up 
and tore into Ulysses. As its janines sank 
into his cugular, Ulysses' last thoughts
were of Bubastis, Ozymandius's 
spindleearred genemodded lynx.
She carried a tit of bimber. People scowled agog, 
as if Lady Gaga had got out her tatas 
at the Guggenheim.Then again, they'd probs pay 
a million dollars to see her beef stings exhibited. 
Aside from reading Watchmen as a squashed man, 
of course there was an intra-tussive fraught 
about the papermache croupier (croupier,
who rickitywrecked himself before he could 
unchickenycheck himself, had found 
being made of papermache was bad for his health.
And so is tasting chickeny to a Goliath hybrid felid). 
I know not whether some masterful timbre of mystic tone, 
golden black hole baritone intoned,
'Here where spindrift peppers paradox. Awake'
unto the soul of Ulysses De La Trek
once Soulysess had completely seeped
thru the severed neck, seven veins nicked. 
All he had to fight off the liger was the qigong he 
observed off his Siamese nan. And a loud cough.
It was not nearly enough.
It is burnt in; I remember
ol' granite flatface, Terry Tombstone, read that 
'He preferred the beauty
of inflections', whatever that means.
And that was the end of Ulysses De La Trek.    

Dejavulysses (Licing Doors, 2)  

Toulouse La Cruz from Timbucjain 
never had no rigmatazz going down. 
Toulouse La Cruz averred several links,
was one life not like another, 
rings and swoundabouts? Toulouse La Cruz cruised
with the ooze, his thoughts flowed 
like sincider knowledge off an apple, 
Dolden Golicious that messed up the party in
prelapsarian des-res. Toulouse La Cruz invented 
a croupier made of papermache. It caught on
in casinos where Caesar pleekers 
sought polythene Pimms, jugs rubberising 
their plastic legs that reached up to their plastic bums. 
Toulouse La Cruz coined it in! 
The Marmite of Mammon he decidedly liked. 
Toulouse bought himself a tigon,
they were hoined at the jip like Calvin and Hobbes.
They lived the life of Piley,
won the Mann Yartel Prize, 
then moved from Timbucjain
to Katmandu, where catmen see how they're feline first.
World's their litter tray, don't have to do 
the kangaloo with a blumpy jadder, 
escape line going on for the human loo.
But tigon turned beserk puss, pounced on 
Toulouse, teared into him (there had been 
cross-species crosswire about a cougar cougar, 
a lady grrgrr with perk medallions no longer). 
As he materialised from the Kubla Khan pub, 
miniature big cat's sabretoothed lovebite sank into
Toulouse La Cruz's skull, now a cowed loft, 
and popped an eye - 'Agugga agug gug gug!' 
His last thoughts weren't that, they were of Panthor, 
Skeletor's fierce purple ride, from beloved 
childhood drug of the nation,
feeding ignorance and breeding radiation.
I know not if ears of spirit heard a warm
voice to rejoice in being beyond a worm's vice
 - 'there in sudden springward peppering,
scattering, burgeoning. Wake up.'
But entertain the idea La Cruz was not total 
Toodle-louse: he is bitter ember being,
 'umparrition by some twisted godhead 
linked, tormenting his tormentor,
tigon whose name was Qui-Gon Saigon
after Liam and the 'Nam.
Toulouse's ooze certainly did cruise that day.
I think I heard a little bird some cunt
told me a succotash sister recited that poem about 
prefering the beauty of innuendos. 
And that was the end of Toulouse La Cruz,
whatever that means.