Dark long subaquarian death like Franco-Irish still birth – cutting fence wire like shaving pubic hair and writhe in foreign riverbeds to avoid the dogs – they climb into Humvees with 50 Cal poetry strapped to the wheels and you can see them sniffing out of the window with white petrol fumes. Hammers clawing stone like dead things at gravestone graffiti blooded and I heard that tyres used to burst when an arrow from Azincourt wormed it’s way through the dirt and the years and the distance and the ocean asphalt. Orgasm kiddies playing hop skip jump rope with semi-auto headlights spittin’ at ‘em, and the conceivers are fuckin’ in the back seat so’s they can try it again in a year or two. Blood smear animal testing and they shouldn’t be allowed in, open the gates, they ain’t Leonidas or his bones!

Anyway, best comes to best, we’ve got black-skin seeking missles and G3’s that can target Polish accents left over from the Lukewarm wars. Whatcha worried about, ye liberals, it ain’t like they’re people anyway, they don’t like the new Mumford & Sons album cos’ they don’t like generic music and they think Frappucinos are a little pretentious, and they can’t stand moustaches on white skin. Like little black binary code on a product’s porcelain plastic wrapping – scratch ‘em off with yer work car keys and don’t you forget to get ya shit together and ring Jill, cos’ still she don’t wanna let you have yer social for the month even though you’ve applied for her job.


You ain’t got no right to live mate, live here or anywhere.

I mean, it ain’t like it’s to do wit the colour of yer skin, or whatever kinda dago god yer pray to.

It’s pragmatism, innit mate, y’know it ain’t nought more’n that.

An don’tcha know th’ liberal media’s always tellin’ me that cops are killers ‘n murderers an ours would be too if they had guns an’ syphilis fingers?

Man all the kids and the blacks, you know they wanna kill me, an’ ain’t they basically the same anyway?

I heard tha’ the blacks eat boiled pancreas, y’know, but fuck ‘em cos’ mine bled outta insulin a while ago, an’ ain’t history defined by the winners and right defined by the knowledge they took an’ the history they left?

Y’know, I could fit a coupla refugees on my floor, but I’d be worried tha’ they’d rob me blind when I went to sleep, an tha’ the low-hangin’ fruit I pick from bars and nightclubs I don’t fit in will see the size of their dicks and choose them instead.

Y’know, I pro’ly couldn’ pass the citizenship test, z’alright tho’, don’t you know I came from English stock an’ seed an’ thighs an’ I’ve got the whites an’ my teeth ain’t so straight and my accent’s all over the fuckin’ place?

These teeth man, they’re my trademark, only an Englishman could ‘ave teeth like these, that olive bastard who lives downstairs, y’know he’s got all ‘is own teeth?

Bet e’ got ‘em on the fuckin’ NHS as well.

I’m gonna find a klan an’ knock a few of ‘em out and make a denture outta ‘em an’ see if he notices and then we’re gonna dress like Johnnies and cut ‘is heart out.

Yours,
A Concerned Citizen
Who Reads The Daily Mirror
At 8 O’clock Every Evening.

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