Reign of the Quisling-Rodents

CONFESSIONS OF THE BULL

41 That play havoc On the fragile soul? Come what Sunday Shall I be courageous enough To take to my heels at the sight Of these sabre-edged desires Wielded From the hilt of finite things? For as this stilletoed mania – Honed on the whetstone of materialist lure – Hacks my thoughts to bits of sin, Irresistibly I dip this last of my ten fingers Into that grease of retch which lubricates The rust-ridden engine Of this ship of state CONFESSIONS OF THE BULL On this death road, plied By battered hooves to the perdition of slaughter Shuffle us; this hapless herd Of a tailless cattle not just from the Adamawa But out of the river of prawns. Our nganakoh is Jean-Jacques from the Hexagon While ticks on our bodies Are our own kinsmen. Imagine sir! But these immaculate white egrets; avian incarnations Of goodwill, this Earth’s noble hearted, are our saviours Though, I wished, 42 Of the soul BLOOD BROTHER How much redder, your majesty Than that of anyone who dwells Within this rotund ephemeris Is the colour Of your royal blood? How much more majestically, your highness, Than my slavish blood Does it flow through veins? And should these razor phrases Go slitting your throat How much less gory will be its spill Than that of us; crumb-eating scum Who dwell under your mighty feet? Exclude me not from your genealogy, O! Blood brother, When next you draw up your family tree And when next you go communing With your illustrious forebears For benediction from the vast beyond GOING FOR A WALK Down the pilfering way, charted By quislings of long-throatedness To banks without a river; To banks without a dime ...