Saturday, 28 January 2017

lest we remember the cunt

as he passeth undistinguished into obsolescence,

let us not remember him,

the duelling sub-democratic despot, the drone-king,

the black-and-white president, his mind set stiff in the past,

strait-laced with the stern language of sweet-mother suppression

on which he was weaned,

until a shirt so surely stuffed

with all american arrogance.

no, he will not be remembered,

the cunt,

save by the families, friends and life-lamed loved-ones of his uncounted,

but not unforgotten,



unjustly targeted victims,

for he was not a man of colour,

or a coloured-man,

who left our lives,

or leastways our limping imaginations,

filled to feel-good fantasy,

wow-wowed with the crazy kaleidoscopic colour of his wonder-words,

or exhilarating artistry

of courageously conjured civil or sporting action,

or slick-thinking science

in the ethno-irrelevant race for humanity-empowering invention,

or the sincere dare-demo-dreams

of what social-complementary course could be chosen

in the land of the free.


he was no mohammed ali or steve biko

no wellé or jairzinho

no eusébio or zico

no fela kuti or curtis mayfield

no duke ellington or ella fitzgerald

no rosa parks or jesse owens

no richard pryor or marvin gaye

no supreme or temptation

no scott joplin or marcus garvey

no donna summer or charlie parker

no tina turner or gloria gaynor

no bob marley or angela davis

no booker t washington or sydney poitier

no billie holiday or george washington carver

no lewis latimer or charles w chappelle

no jelly roll morton or paul robeson

no aretha franklin or jesse jackson

no james baldwin or gil scott-heron

and certainly no louis armstrong or martin luther king,

just the liar king,

whose right corrupt complexion of commands

bequeathed the world a clipped-left-wing,

the gaunt and cheerless guardian of guantanamo bay's

american moral retention camp,

he set no-one free,


manning the eternal offence-posts of institutional bigotry,

keeping his prize homosexual human-shield

hostage for a hundred days,

a so petulantly imprisoned pawn

in the american hardman's game

insuring against the impending prosecuting rain.

no, the vacuous verbal-froth

of this pathetically over-hyped pseudo-humanitarian president

will not be remembered,

or quoted admiringly,

by sincere school-children of history,

'cause this viciously cross grey stick of classy-roomed chalk

dictated his meaningless monotone version of liberty

in a grim gruelling gravy of ethically evaporated ideas,

holed-up high in snow-white hegemonic heaven,

where he viperously reaped the well-waged waste,

and one helluva wicked reward for his bonanza human harvest,

this great greed-hill holocaust

for a few greasy old holes in somebody else's ground,

back-seat-driven by his own sick secretary of state-subversion,

the mother-slick of cia-stealth-slaughter,

on behalf of her extremely grateful grand-theft autocrats,

infinitely well-installed in another alt-righteous country.

no, let us not remember him,

the arse-headed african-american advocate

of unaccountable overseas cultural annihilation,

who through his fearless fancy-principled fondness

for promoting never-ending neo-colonial war-crime against

defenceless africans,

defenceless arabs,

and defenceless asians,

has duly exercized the equal divine-right

of a black president

to disgrace the entire black community,

in precisely the same undignified,

unbending way in which

each white president

has traditionally never failed

in his unflinching racial duty

to disgrace the whole damn white community,

nor let us remember

the two-faced totalitarian telephone-tapper,

who let his star-spangled slip-stream

of toxic trickle-down death-threats

compulsively permeate

their leaky-lipped communication of corrosion

through the rogue repressive ranks

of his sado-supplicant supporters,

in order,

in the emotionally screened-out name of terminal moral insecurity,

to mute the middening crowd of criticism,

with extreme psychological convenience,

into the insensitive catatonic scare

of stone silent submission,

nor let us remember

the barbarian bureaucrat bomber,

who in true trumanesque tradition

of reactive remote-controlled truculence,

ferried a few-hundred-thousand poor foreign fuckers,


into a democratically enhanced eternity,

at the flick of a flash signature-switch,

from the impeccably moistured palm of his unmannered oval vestibule.

no, this glossy office gecko

was no comrade-starving stalin

or kikuyu-culling churchill,

who did his murder manually,

in propria persona,

when the case demanded,

no, this dirt-free demagobic disaster


upon due and respectful reflection,

just a democratic desk jihadist

deftly dodging the incandescent backdraft-blast

from the irate islamic inferno

which he himself had religiously stoked and poked,

stepping en pointe on the hissing hot coals of hell

like some dotty demon-dantean disco-dancer,

but still,

we must give thanks

that now his two-turn terrifying tour-of-duty

in the great ancestral white-arse orifice

is at long last,


and our former fair-weather


may hence most righteously be resuscitated,

then rakishly resurrected

and rashly restored

for to flourish all rudely abroad

with much funky music aforethought,

as fresh-garlands swung blooming

in far-gone glasnostic glam-folk celebration

at that final, fun-censoring expiration

of the puritanically correct protectorate,

a welcome wellspring watershed in [doctrinal]* wankerdom's wacky progress,  *[delete as inappropriate]

which licensed gay church-bells to ring out

their gratuitously ragged rows

of rite-appealing changes,

which caused a frantic countrywide uncorseting

of downcast comedy-houses

dimmed by decree,

and which,


incited flocks of frenzied middle-fingered maypoles

to be dotingly dusted off,

and pruriently stuck up

in a feral flurry,

for the purely provocative prancing about of,

back in the miserable,


euro-peeing mist

of missus "merry maynark" mayflower's

murkye olde englande.

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