Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Enter and Break
“For every French fry consumed today in America
10,000 pubic hairs have been singed by bombs
since the birth of Christ and the advent of waxing .”
Dan Glee Balls (1999).
Afrighanistam: Whenever . . .
Conjunctive decibels splurge din-gunk;
quivering the thickening skin of the extracted eardrum.
Drawing blood with a rhythm stick.
A cancer-pen, full of lead, for children to chew.
They cram math and nibble
once before and twice during the war.
Agent Lemon Yellow scattered lethal writing
instruments all over tropical battlefields.
Min Gee Man,
a Marxist guerrilla (clad in a monkey suit),
studied the ancient art of Gridiron.
This diminutive rebel unravelled a ramshackle institute,
built from crash-test Jets,
attack copters and chunks of chomped propaganda.
Man taught the young children the intricacies
of Offence and Defence in a hole in the ground.
Tactical Tarts and degenerate art for starving toddlers.
Hotdogs, popcorn and a gallon of Bud for the teacher's pet.
A star-studed student and the first
third world quarterback to boost the trophy.
The CIA cold wind
blew hot air under the Mullah’s religious radar smock –
Man’s breezy trousers flutter, a fake fart floundering; an insipid waft
transported with a gay guff, the putrefying pencils of venality.
Protected by crustacean shaped crash helmets,
gargantuan shoulder pads and Wai Ban sunglasses,
the People's pupils dilated and spelled invincible
behind the shades.
They masticated the tens of pens
circulated beneath the detector.
During the half-time team talk
their hardball outfits began to melt into the Jungle canopy.
An entire breed cried, died of dehydration
in the desert, severe concussion in the caucuses,
and other data-raid related acts of global
pen-pushing mirrored smoke and tissued lies.
Min Gee Man dickered his way to a small fortune
by hunting, killing and then trading the golden
bum holes of the sacred transgender Orang-utans,
who had, until this point, paraded around
the downtown taverns and Seal clubs, camouflaged as
Vermillion cheerleaders on mopeds – erotic war pigs
riding pillion, masquerading as Orwellian characters . . .
They fooled No Wan Et Al. . . .
Except that is, for Charlie Sheen (in town for a remake),
who, pumped up on the Blood of the Tiger cub,
had contracted a nasty touch of Midas.
The entire affair was reimagined by multiple Directors.
Christopher Nolan rebooted the franchise in order to save his career.
And now the multitudes perceive History
through the flap of a violent Happy Meal massacre.
In essence, Full Blown AIDS suited Man,
a fitted tribute to immorality,
made to measure, whistle and flute:
A Tripartite peace:
Made to make African mouths water.
Struck by poverty, the bug and the dead children,
beating at his conscience with their infected ballpoints,
Man lit up his own head of hair like a Hollywood daredevil
Woo Man, Man’s wet wife,
struggled to smear him in her fluids.
Enacting an ancient squatting technique
Woo imbibed her Man.
Extinguishing the Stunt, the Cunt
and the cunning Sun.
aMen: in Atrocity.
Dark faces and golden crowns – they're kings in Ethiopia.
And I like the way that tits cling to the flowers and pick out
the seeds, while the other loutish birds, grubbing dirty for
their food, look up in envy from the ground.
A.Huxley - Crome Yellow (1921).