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,
unwhite,
unamerican,
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.
no,
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,
spiritually,
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,
free,
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
was,
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,
over,
and our former fair-weather
freedom-of-effervescing-speech
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,
fatefully,
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,
ministerial,
euro-peeing mist
of missus "merry maynark" mayflower's
murkye olde englande.


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