On When Boris Met Jennifer, Exposure ITV1 November 17th 2019


‘Cunt struck,’ you sprawled across her silicone coloured bosom,

That the breast itself appeared natural meant the milk you sought

Stained the teeth. For, while seeking the false you found something real

Through hard sucking, filling your mouth while precluding

The limit of love’s honesty. She  made a beeline for you, or you for her.

That’s the story. Stung, your prime number, lined up for you,

Drew her flame.  In a plump girl’s hot embrace you pressed the flesh

That stirs schoolboys, and which forty years on never leaves them

As the borders of sex mark our game. 


A brash American burns to revive the use of quim in quaint Engand.

Calling it energy you emblazoned a portal for her to pass through.

And so she lap danced for you, and you for her at conventions,

Openly displaying collusion and preference too, smearing truth.

You tell the British public the joke but keep rearranging the punchline.

Changing it for your purpose and your comfort too, keeps you young.

Like a boy in a garden of birds that he continually waves a large stick at,

You spear the air stained around you with the blood of the deaths

You’ve begun.  They may not be literal deaths, but they are the deaths


Of hope and thoughts flying; they are the deaths for which Brexit,

Whatever outcome, will help yield; the suffering of the old as you plumply

Cavort in Hotel Rooms; believing yourself above others, you are  one of those

In High Towers no longer aware of the troubling labourers in the field. 

As in Harry Lime, they are ants whose frantic movements elude you.

You have no thought for what happens if they are drowned by boiling rain

Or just stop. You have escaped from accusations of fraud, domestic abuse,

And betrayal. You have lied to the Queen, torn the textbooks and risen,

Like bile to the top. Once it became noticeable it was clear at last


That you worried. But not about cause or issue,

Merely about your soiled name. Which even you boulderise,

So as to appear close to average. But ‘Alexander the Great’, as she had it,

On her mobile phone, spiked campaigns. These were not about glory,

Or wins, but the propogation of image. At which even your own siblings bridled,

Deserting you to save face. If you were as bad as Hitler, then they would be the true

Shickelgrubers, shambling the streets around Knightsbridge, while seeking

To disguise your slimed trace. Still, the rising hate you invoke would make

Even your silhouette appear solid, as you represent the height fallen


By the warped and shamed angels of childhood or the so called God’s

Paradise. This woman believed you were key to the golden rooms

She dreamt open. But at a cynical time your romances are merely aping love

Monkey like. By keeping Jennifer at your side she saw herself as Eve to your Adam,

And yet with the rotund, ribs are hidden as flesh is piled on to shield sin.

Adultery’s not the point. This is about a deficiency in the spirit

That demands the skin’s secrets are a privilege we can’t win.

When she could no longer call, due to circumstance, she moved from you.

The obsession she covered before an interviewer’s look brought her pride.


Smiling loudly, pale words exposed the orchestra behind silence,

Which she now conducted as the fake news fools constructed revealed

Your wretched theme and lovelife.  Rejected, you spurned, as women have

Across legend.  Calling you, she heard nothing but an ominous voice, talking back.

Stated as being Chinese, such an abstracted thought stems from Cummings,

Who soundtracks your going and the public echo of loss with attack.

The girl is now not as gold, for she has married beneath you.

 Building her business across you, the bridge you designed is withdrawn.

Now her large blowjob eyes are stained by tears and dejection


As you seek to suck waters that will drown us all, she’s forlorn.

Another bright body used, just like the pig you fellatioed.

Or Darius Guppy – who no-one remembers now – we’re all fucked.

Just as Jennifer was from the very moment she saw you.

Your shambolic act is the condom

On which the penis of power penetrates freedom

And which now in torn bedrooms

Will make us all


The Cunt struck.




David Erdos November 18th 2019

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