Earlsdon: re-engineered bent-copper D-list lookalikes in 4x4 gangster chic bling-tractors
Earlsdon: filth burger fine dining, sambuca date-raped piss elegant, block-paved mundanity
Earlsdon: half-quaffed bottles of quid-a-throw San Miguel in shop doorway piss trails of contempt
Earlsdon: pavement pizzas and polished turd chavlings from the sphincter of the tunnel of shame
Earlsdon: glitter-clad airheads, couch potato banalities, the parroted histrionics of reality-soap clichéd confrontation.
Earlsdon, shell-suited twaterati crab-like stumbling through derv laden fug, bellowing insults, facing down traffic
Earlsdon: screaming hordes puke their way through taxi-warden boggler mayhem: the scrambled ascension to Chaventry Central Jumping Jack heaven
******
Anyone seen Donnelly?
ReplyDeleteYes and no. One minute he was and then you know how the story unfolds . . . .
ReplyDeleteI must commend KPB - or should that be KPI - for the seriously intense poem posted on the 3rd December. Not only does it have some pretty good imagery and shit but it resonates with the general body of research TW UK has come with about general torpor, ennui and that but more importantly just how things are panning out down here in POUNDLAND. Clearly inspired by e e cummings, Ginsberg, and the Sumo Fruit & Veg shop front, it manages to hover over the squalor and decay that is CV5 at the present time and that. Hoorah, Hoorah, etc for freedom of the aesthetic and shit.
ReplyDelete