Imagine This Scenario (part 2)

 You hear the gang of judges sizzling in their vapid power.

Without a map, your bumpy way gets bumpier by the hour.

The mob are weaving forth, they’re loading all their shrieking howitzers,

they sermonise and slander you into a den of counsellors,

they catapult their boulders of debilitating dogma

and batter down your barricade. You gallop to a doctor.

Who else is there? Your father’s shuffled through this sieve of fishiness.

Was he a father ever? Or just half a sexual synthesis?

You charge and jerk upstream to reach dejection’s chilly origin.

You lurch upstage. No width, no depth, no space to jam a sausage in.

Here swoops a fixed absorption, a tsunami of perceptual change

that chops your judgement into shreds and chokes your intellectual range.

You mumble, “My frenemies’ venomous moaning might be a quite normal phenomenon.

What if they’re really all right and I’m wrong?” The delirious drivel rolls on and on.

The world is now a yawning yuckfest wobbling with yammering wankpots

whose actions suggest that they cherish the pleasure of yanking your brain into shank knots.

 

 But everyone’s so good, so right, so modern and so clever!

By God, they’re so much cleverer, more modern, righter, better.

So well-informed, clued-up about the world, so mentally nimble.

Race and gender. Yes, that’s what it’s all about. It’s simple.

So liberal, open-minded. Their moralities are premium.

What worthless, low-down pond life one must be to disagree with them,

to disagree that children’s corpses littered round a concert hall

by a creed that kills for sport, that wants its virgins, wants it all,

is just the price we have to pay (and golly, isn’t it worth it?)

to have our wonderful, diverse, free, open, vibrant surfeit

of multicultural loveliness, is worth it so a Western

liberal bourgeoisie that never asks or answers questions

can brag about its virtue at a tofu dinner party

to all its friends in the honky-hating bourgeois wankerati.

 

 Your soul now crushed and sunken from these evermore-diffusing

“I’m better than you” beta-males and gamma-females oozing

from every nook and lecture-hall across the sterile promontory

regurgitating all their shining spoonfed social commentary,

crushed and sunken from society’s “creative people”

possessing the imagination of a blind dung-beetle,

you drift and drift away from this macchiato-stirring virus

and shove a different quintessential dust into your sinus.

 

 You can only face the world through the kaleidoscopic prism

of ketamine, the only thing that beats a constant rhythm,

the only method of forgiving those who cannot fathom

an alienated misfit staring down into a chasm.

Ravers’ smack, horse candy, donkey wonkifier, ketamine,

portal through the universe you couldn’t squeeze an atom in,

escape route from the crudely-painted three-dimensioned backdrop,

God reflected in a mirror on which joy is racked up,

powdered Buddhism, pineal threshold, magic lever,

majestic psychonautic voyage through the throbbing ether,

heaven in a frying pan, subverted pony valium,

white fun, snuff plus, revivifying interstellar galleon,

gurgling cruising goggle-eyed quick cure for kicking hungers,

extra-human gangway, golden key to the humungous,

lines of pleasure, psychic sherbet, nasal exorcism,

centuries-secret treasure, transdimensional incision,

Special K, emotional morphine, sniffable Nirvana,

unicorn food, Zen-dust, paraphysical gymkhana,

repositioner of time and space, the mind, the ego.

Ketamine.                                                            Still just a placebo.

There’s nothing more you want to say or hear. Now you’ve detached yourself.

All you want to do is roll a banknote and dispatch yourself

into a different universe from all of mankind’s trivia,

snorting, snorting, as opinions all around get sniffier.

Those banknotes though, are running out. They cannot reproduce themselves

and bosses, colleagues, customers, they all can go and screw themselves.

 

 Every job that anybody anywhere does ever

is a dreary sack of ostrich mucus. Jobs just slither

from your apathetic grasp like remoulade-smeared lizards.

Money – is this really how a human’s worth is measured?

All you ever wanted was a ticket in the raffle

of Love. Instead you sell your slumbering brain cells in a brothel.

And now you have to stand in line and sign your name and wrestle

with all the devils in the trenches of the antisocial.

So how do you escape this life with such a colour-free hue?

You run into the arms of mystic beatniks up a tree who

throw their arms around the world from Zhangjiagang to Aachen.

Is this how mould will be scraped off, how skies will cease to darken?

You squeeze into a squatted Georgian townhouse that’s disfigured

by scaffolding and dreadlocked spray-can-brandishing left-wingers.

Among the filth you drift away into your white-nosed coma.

You’re thirty now, but deep inside, your age is getting lower.

You move into a nursery school, where stars of tissue paper

dangle from the ceiling. The fruits of childish labour.

The ketamine your kite-high haircut-skipping new friends peddle

flows like the ketchup on your cod and chips. You boil a kettle

and fill a plastic bin with shower gel to stay hygienic.

And like some sort of Allen key and flashlight-wielding relic

of when mankind stalked woolly mammoths through the prehistoric

bogs of Doggerland, you creep through Bristol’s dark, prosaic

supermarket car parks, cracking dustbins open, searching

for pasta, trifle, sandwiches and maybe some tinned sturgeon

to feed yourself. At this point a cluster of middle-class Feminists floats up

and tells you that you’re “privileged”.

 

 

                                                                         A flock of sluts that soaks up

the Tuscan sunshine. Lazy whores with faces sour as grapefruit

who think they’re on the brink of some great intellectual breakthrough,

whose daddies paid their student fees and finance their addictions

to leather bags and high-heeled shoes of myriad descriptions,

whose lovers shower them with all they see in glistening adverts,

who sit and quaff champagne until the seventh or the eighth hurts

their coiffured heads, inform you that – unlike them – you are “privileged”

because you have a penis.

 

 

                                                   Even though this life is double-edged

and in our brave postmodern world, all ideological spew aside,

more homelessness, more pressure to succeed in life, more suicide,

more workplace death, worse prison sentences, less child custody,

these are the male “privileges”. From Mercia to Muscovy

discrimination is against the law, and yet (how funny) 

companies hire men to do the same job for more money!

 

 But even though the rights of both the genders are identical,

you can’t escape the Feminist behemoth’s clammy tentacles

demanding men apologise and beg and fawn and snivel

and hack their shrunken testicles off with a rusty chisel.

You can’t say ‘bitch’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘whore’. No, that’s misogynistic,

insist these bitches, cunts and whores. But, oh – in case you missed it,

it’s still alright for women to say ‘tosser’, ‘prick’ and ‘wanker’,

it’s still acceptable for girls to snap and swipe in anger

and laugh at a man’s penis with a crooked little finger,

but men must show respect for women’s looks. These gifted thinkers

inform you that all masculine behaviour is now “toxic”,

so close your legs! Sit down to piss! Adhere to shrewish logic!

Just shut your mouth! Don’t be a man! Be much more like a female!

That’s what they order you to do. But here’s an unsaid detail,

a caveat in the small print: women still possess the freedom

to suck the cocks of men who do not care about or need them,

of rippling-muscled chauvinists who’ll trap their hearts in sick pain,

as women can have sex with who they want, you sexist dick-brain.

 

 Another detail: none of this applies to brown or black men.

All misogynists are white. Your ancestry goes back ten

or more millennia in Europe, homeland of the white race.

The fact that other people with a vaguely similar-typed face

to yours possess more power in society than those who’ve

been landing here for sixty years in fluctuating flows proves

you’re privileged, and you should be deprived of your nationality,

ashamed of who and what you are, with all of its depravity!

For all white males are privileged oppressors, shriek the Feminists.

Your Celtic heart, which through the years has passionately reminisced

about King Arthur (Caradog and Boudicca both crammed in too),

your Celtic blood, passed down from those who fled potato famines, who

had begged and starved in Irish fields, now suitably affronted

by a swamp of hairy-armpitted, intellectually stunted,

self-obsessed, self-righteous, vile, unfuckable middle-class ratbags,

Orwellian screeching brainwashed filth, degenerate privileged fat slags

with fat gobs full of Arab-spunk, how else can you react to this?

What would be your calmly thought-out, reasonable analysis?

 

 Imagine this scenario. That this was your life story.

How d’you think you’d feel about the panting, squirting orgy

of moral masturbation that erupts around you daily?

About these Feminists and all their eunuch friends who gaily

prance across the stage while warbling doctrine from their rectums.

How d’you think you’d feel about these folk? Would you respect them?

Or would you like to slash them into slices with a gimlet

and melt them into one vast bullshit-flavoured Spanish omelette

or lampshades, bars of soap, perhaps a set of scented candles

shaped like huge vaginas? Well, these civilisational vandals

have brought us all here with their brains the size of hedgehogs’ foreskins,

yelling “Sexist scum! Islamophobe!” at Richard Dawkins.

With David Icke it’s “Crackpot!”, Tommy Robinson it’s “Racist!”,

Marine Le Pen it’s “Far right!”, Julian Assange it’s “Rapist!”

because it’s easier to vomit empty words and slogans

and jump on all the government-sponsored, Soros-fed bandwagons

than listen to what someone has to say. Oh yes, it’s easier

to think what you’re supposed to think in blindness and amnesia,

and if you don’t, there must be something wrong with you, you weirdo,

you dribbling racist sexist spastic. Be like Emperor Nero

and watch the game show or the football. Listen to Kate Tempest.

Don’t doubt the doubleplusgood multiculti socjus femfest.

Don’t think about the Mongols, the Mughals, the Arab Slave Trade.

Just keep on screaming “It’s all Europe’s fault mankind’s got waylaid!”

Just keep on cheering on the rape and murder of our continent.

Reward yourself with oral pleasure ’cause you’re so damn tolerant.

Just get down on your privileged white kneecaps and apologise

for all those crimes you didn’t do and lands you didn’t colonise.

Don’t fret about jihadists or society’s destruction

in general. Don’t you worry now, about the introduction

of open borders, gender reassignment for small children

or safe-space culture. In this world we’re cooking in our cauldron,

everything is normal. So don’t challenge the opinions

of Feminists, don’t argue with the government’s droning minions,

those pieces on the chessboard who believe their revolution

is a rebel’s cause, who love the European Commission,

or you’re a bigot like those shitty brainless proletarians,

insist the left-wing intellectual authoritarians,

just shut your mouth and watch TV. Or else.

 

 

                                                                                     This moral leprosy

is the final, trapdoor-opening, downfall-triggering treachery.

Vienna is besieged. See the barbarians and their weaponry.

Imagine this scenario. I think you’d know your enemy.