Spellbound

Magickal spells

spell out

a spelling bee.


Getting stung by

sting & the Police.

Fuck the police

fuck me, me, mythos.


The ethos

of your manifesto

manifests

as man is festering,

pestering,

nesting,

nestling,

wrestling &

bringing pestilence,

providing no sustinence,

jumping the fence,

scaling the wall,

making the tower fall

and the sky will fall with it,

chicken little boy.


Dicken’s little toy,

Oliver’s Garden,

Eden,

needs weedin,

in the bible written by Joss Whedon.


‘Needs more freedom’,

said Chef Snowden,

but now he’s snowed in.


He showed up,

but freedom’s still slowed up,

we’ll never catch up,

cos you say tomato, and I say ketchup.


I’m a magickal slut,

reading occult smut,

and when I’m stuck in a rut,

and all of a flutter,

I imagine that fly of butter,

and with my minds camera shutter

I pic myself up, out of the gutter.


Motorboating out of shit creek,

I do triple damage on your doublespeak,

I don’t care if you say en pointe or on fleek,

there’s a tongue in my turn of cheek.


I won’t eat your cheeky Nandos,

But I’ll google conspiracy theories about Jill Dando.

Who are you?

A Bunch of randos,

I’m a spoken word squad commando.

I’ll command this office,

Command this orifice.


Can you sacrifice,

a little bit of time,

little lamb?

I’ll make you minted,

get you mashed,

leave you thrashed,

and lashed.


The doors unlatched,

your cache snatched,

this country’s been thatched,

by the mad, bad Thatcher,

that childhood snatcher.

Stop culling the badger,

stop, can you bother,

to love your brother,

let good vibes brew there,

allow the brouhaha,

give those tits the push off bra.


This is canon now like Pachelbel.


So, this passover,

think of those passed over,

walking on the overpass,

living in the underpass,

they ain’t got no multipass.

their story ain’t in the multiplex,

hidden in plain view,

sleeping against plexiglass,

attacks rank,

for sleeping near a taxi rank,

whilst you drive a tank,

that cost £100 for tank of gas,

no gracias.

I’d rather buy an ounce of grass.


There’s broken glass,

7 years bad luck,

when you break a mirror,

so bring some myrhh,

and some frankinsense,

smell the frank scents,

swell and flank scouts,

going dib dib dib,

dob dob dob,

all saying they’re doing god’s job,

that’s Job’s God,

and they all make

a terrible mistake.

Cos God doesn’t believe in them any more.


Could you please hold the door,

whilst I hold the floor,

and leave you unsure,

on shore leave,

of your senses,

sense the lenses,

letting you know,

you’re being watched,

24/7, 365.


CCTV lets you know your alive,

in this alien nation,

can you feel the alienation,

on your marks, of hesitation.

our hard earned rights in capitulation,

captain’s not earned her station,

BBC Radio two plus two equals five,

alive,

Johnny.


Machine men,

women wonder.


Two plus two equals take five,

a fake five,

cos time is just an illusion.


Allusions

to the thing that’s eluding,

the things you’re concluding,

of concurrent currents,

events in stages,

turning pages,

numbered one to infinity.


Pooling your resources,

full of contortion,

wounds and contusions,

word revolution,

against the world’s destitution,

electrocution via elocution.


The smell of burning paper,

the spell of an earning pauper.


This magickal spell,

from the front door of hell,

the internal inferno,

the eternal internment.



My body is a cell,

my body made of cells.

A body of work for sale.

If the eyes are the windows,

our mouths are the sill.


To prevent your soul from getting ill,

thou shalt always, always kill.

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