As you sour the inevitable seat your slick stain
Will be another spoil we will swallow,
Under overbearing weight, lack of conscience,
Or moral code mars each throat.

Everything you have sucked has been spat
Across the public face in high weather,
While your cast your excesses into the pit
Of a pig, for love’s joke.

The joke is now us, prey to the falsity and deception;
An inveterate hunger for power is not a God sent code,
Or a right. If I could confront you clearly, I would,
Stripping you bare in the High Street,

With all of Uxbridge on fire, I would transform
Your plump darkness to a nuclear burn
And Kill Light. Doubtless, they would lock me away
In some seeded inverse of the tower,

Despite this remove, I’d be safer, far from the raw
And wrack you will bring. You are the wrecked implosion
In man when he fails to understand his true purpose,
Blow Job Boris Johnson, the self gratification you savour,
Spills on all people, and scars the confession
That will become the coming day’s primal sin.
As Heathcote Williams wrote, you are the nightmare
Now we’re all having; he would overturn his grave

To attack you, and home borough begat, so would I.
I would prise that mask from your face and even the wig
Nature gave you, to expose the sad and stark rancour
That the devil expresses as your buffeted flame

Starts its rise. You have made the country your whore,
Of any gender. Forcing its face to receive you,
You have filled each mouth with dull swill,
That your porcine slut slavered in, during your college ball

With fat fellows, who scamper now beneath rock face,
Hoodies drawn against harshess and the spiral and spite
Of sea spill. Across that expanse they hate us,
As we withdraw our appeal through the clutter

Of your presumptuous clamour, soiling the shores
That now fade. You have exploded both reason and truth
For your sick, speared advancement. As you commit both
Fraud and disturbance and fail to negotiate the next stage.

For you the country is play but you are just bad television.
From which no perception, no insight, no true leadership
Can come forth. Instead you ram yourself in our mouths
As the false word sperm breeds the bitter,

As Harold Pinter wrote, you will fuck us,
As we go down on you every evening,
While forgetting our worth behind doors.
Where will they lead? Down to hell.

Or to the latest transgression.
They will certainly range far from freedom,
As the trap front door is slammed shut.

Watch how the sewers will rise.

See how they will ejaculate across gardens.
As you and those like you rupture the mouth
And vagina, ruining each sweat passage

To redefine the slang: You’re the cunt.

I think you know it, you see,
And I also think you enjoy it.
As your carve at our future
With this knife of words
                                   I’ll be blunt.





David Erdos 22nd July 2019
Illustration: Claire Palmer

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