Vernissage (For Idle Hands)

Rabies & genocide, boys & girls,
my contemporabies and also future shack- 
dwellers (drumroll, bum note):  presenting
the Swatches of Hell, my vernissage
entitled 'Infernissage'. It'd be easier to ask
whose soul the show is not awaiting
when eyesockets are groped in the darkness
of a ver'massage, worse than a new
leather headache. Save for saying
'w/out further ado', 
the Swatches of Hell in 9 hues:

(2) Rubicunt 
gammon Brexshitter on #BBCQT.
Shirecoarse broflake of a certain age, whose purple rage
pulses w/ excess of free radicals, fulminating    
against an excess of Free Radicals. Oxidisation
at the state of the nation. The greatest trick
the Devil ever pulled was convincing
us he's nothing l/ David Dimbleby.

(3) Gammon darker,
down the doctor's, no quizzical
ripple on quack's accordion brow - simple dyingnosing
a carotid grume in ruddifazed
British bullfrog's fatberg of jowlveins.
His backgarden Gammon Gammadion flying
at halfmast in a pig's whisper, if
'Sweet 'n' Sour Lobster' matched pantone of
St.Georgie-Porgie's protein perspiration 
is anything to go by. On his way to an early
Inheritance Tax dodge by his Thatcherite 
farrow, confirming
no purse can silkify the souls
of sow's ear scions, & that
bacon acorns don't fall far 
from the Gammon's Magic Mammon Tree.

4) Idiopathic craniofacial erythemas all round 
at a kilfudyoking over who invented the dynamite toothpick, 
when the realisation shites a fucking light both sides 
were pulvercinerated on the spot 
(as if a Space X booking had been clutzclicked,
redfaced interlocutors 
transported to the surface of Frigg's Star,
rather than Elon's Elysium Bulge
sockstuffed w/ ecocidal cope). 

5) Ponceau plasma kerblammo of cheapshot deathscending 
as if the cursed perspex of the Red Hood 
wedged on by Bob the Goon's predecessors,
or the red mist blackclouding upon Prince Prospero 
vis-à-vis Red Death, the poxy masquecrasher,
but from the rear, der genickshuß 
too late blowing away blindness 
in occipital eyes of adage,
e.g. those in back of the caput of Rome's capitaneus canum, 
1 immortalised in name of dogfood inter alia.
No need of a ghillie toga had Brutus the bounder 
being this emperor's chum.

(6) Carnivorous-pillarbox-shade nailvarnish
of gobsworth jobshite murderdoll dialing
in another Axis-might-as-well-won-day 
Monday for the recruitment agency temp. 
In this blondsports arena
- the Recruitment Agency, nor Berlin '36
- murderdoll receptionist fancies herself 
Miss Axis Mundi,
but she's officilicious entertainmeat 
overloveegging herself.
Her pucker paint's pantone is the pink of predation,
her slap flawless as a paralysed actress,
a paralysed actress's slap
after her tearducts were tearductknapped
by a nip 'n' a tuck. Tho' Miss M.Doll's face 
is more le maquillage marinade 
after the gammon gangmaster of gangmasters 
bonks her hollower w/ his bacon thorn,
in his pig's styescraper
of a turnip baron's Trump tower.
The murderdoll's collateral is carnal,
her beauty only follows the money,
coz cash is queen in th'urban Jumanji
of a UK the Grocer's Daughter gutted so Jumingy.  
Meanwhile, in the basement of the Recruitment Agency,
a murdered doley finally gets 
the importance of networking  
amid cobwebs' merging doilies.

(7) Sartorially, a butcher's rainbow  
defines the Suzerain of Toast O' Clock Tophet 
this anthroposeason (sadly not coming w/ a cone). 
No, I don't mean MC. #BBCQT, I mean
the Devil IRL-oosely i.e. the Arch-Hole of myth.
If testosterone could pull off tuftaffeta,
this Tartarean trendsetter is the 1 to watch,
w/ his auburn ape trimmings from Borneo bones bled, 
which owe more to Deforest than Kelley 
(practically fratricidal for us mowler honkies,
chinkpanzees & hanuman beigings expatriating
the Africark, yet here we are, the furriers to the furnace-
keeper). He's been around for a long, long year
- Asmodeus on an English Triumph - but now 
diabolically LMAOing over 

(9) Blucifer 
(his blah-hue that of a Neptunian 
whose neb-blue-loucheness  
is a watchword as if by Bengal lights illumed) 
who is a blue Rubicante 
when his sadistneyworld flamepark avenges
Hubineks & Heather Wests. We are worth hating,
the Devil's seen the intel. We fence 
our consciences at art galleries, buy coffee table prints 
l/ papal indulgences. But Jesus is a gerund.