Sinister bloody sexless thing
blowing out of Market Street
with a red ridden burlap sack and a blood iron hood –
a sexless thing, I said,
from the depths of darkest spring
sidling up the side streets
with a swing in his thigh obsessed thighs.
Sidling into men,
don’t you know,
reeling with consumption
and he’ll touch their arm and smile
and steady their resolve and breathe his sweet sexless breath –
the men’ll cut the silent suburban shouting with their thoughts
and pretend not to be drunk in front of their parents.
Oh, he likes them young,
ol’ sexless sinister,
and did Ms Grain tell you that he’s running
for all the politics next year?
Ain’t she shown you seen his pamphlet
and it’s well know that he’s got the Martian vote behind him,
but no one knows how they’ll turn out come the polls.
I heard he was running against a porn star
who specialised in molesting Asian girls on trains
and he really wants to teach us about safe sex –
he’s hoping to use his movies to do it, so I hear.
He’s already got the schools buying them,
and now the local council are interested –
pretty soon you’ll be able to get them from your GP,
so long as you don’t pay your rent.
Of course, there’s always the Marxists,
but they’ve always been a soppy bunch
and you try explaining communism to a guy with no eyes
cos’ he sees things for what they are
and he’d just laugh at the idea of there being
another human being to treat as an equal.
If he were deaf and mute as well,
then he’d be god,
and he’d make little creatures formed from clay
and his mute deaf black touch dance to his tune
and lie and tell ‘em that they have free will
and they’d quail
and weep for ‘im cos’ he’s better than them.