SAVING THE LANGUAGE

Cunt. A word that's under threat
from overuse.
I'd like to save it for the Cunt
that thumped his door
through at sunrise on Friday morning,
and the Cunt that flashed the warrant.
The Cunt that held the gun
to his head
as he knelt,
fingers interlaced behind his head.

The Cunts that put him up
at Her Majesty's Pleasure <Cunt>
without her medication.
That Cunt doctor that prescribed it
and kept his gob shut.

What about the pilot? Cunt.
That warmed the engine
while fifty shivering fuckers
shivered - frightened
in the terminal at Heathrow.
No Cunt asked to see their passport,
they just waved them through,
the Cunts.

But funnily enough, I wondered
did some daft Cunt stand
and wave his arms in English,
Cunting on
about the exit doors,
life jackets, the seatbelt light,
not smoking
as if they were all Cunts.

The Home Secretary
and all her junior ministers are Cunts.
Shuffling and signing papers,
not even reading them
or thinking of the names as lives
that live among us -
"Saving the English."

Let's us save us for ourselves
and not them Cunts.
Let's us save us
From them Cunts.

RUMPLESTILTSKIN

Everyday he'd turn up
and sweep
the turnings on the factory
floor to piles
and no-one new his name.

They'd call him Jud,
or little Jud.
They thought he were Jud's
son, but he weren't.
He didn't even know a Jud.

One day, he comes in
all quiet
and gets about his sweeping.
The missus no-one knew he had
had lost the bairn.

Afterwards they called him nowt.
Cut a wide berth
round the machines to avoid
conversation.
Nothing awkward like. Just work.

At the Christmas do he didn't show.
Sent a photograph
two days later from Magaluf
and a bottle of champagne,
offering his resignation.

A bottle of champagne
for thirteen men?
We barely got a thimble each
the spawny get.
Jud. Ungrateful sod.

PASSPORT INTERVIEW (OR THE "ARE YOU BROWN?" TEST)

Imagine we are at your house;
what colour is the front door?
When we open the front door,
what can we see?
Give me the guided tour.

Where are you going? Anywhere hot?
And how long for? And who with?
Does her husband know the pair of you
are carrying on like this?

What does your mother do?
And how much does your housemate earn
a week? What was the balance
on your father's last bank statement?
A dinnerlady then.

Excuse me a moment please.
I just need to take two of these.
I have a migraine coming on.

What have you eaten in the last four days?
When did you last dream?
When did you last have sex?
Or commit adultery?
What do you wear to bed?
Describe yourself naked.

Place your finger on the fingerprint reader.
This photo seems to be in order.
I'm sure we'll let you across the border.
If you'd been brown
we'd have given you murder.

Imagine we are at your house.

WILLIAM CHARLES EVERLOVE BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

William Charles Everlove, 28 years old
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN VIA ARIZONA, $40

He was never here
He never came
He was a ghost

I was never intimate
I never inhaled
I was alone

Somebody was never in the room next door
Somebody never heard
Somebody was in Texas

He was never anyone
He never lied
He was nothing

I was never told where he went
I never cared
I was important

LULLABEATLES

for EMA

1.

Rock-a-bye Lucy,
a boat on a river,
tangerine trees,
marshmallow pies.

Cellophane flowers,
kaleidoscope eyes,
diamonds with Lucy
marmalade skies.

2.

Hush little egg-man
don't you cry,
you'll be a walrus
before you die.

And if those pigs
can't run from guns,
we'll kick Edgar Poe
for fun.

3.

Diddle-diddle Desmond
market trolly
went to bed
with market Molly

Life goes on
and life goes on,
Obla-Desmond
Obla-Molly

4.

Twinkle, twinkle, understand
how I wanna hold your hand.
Such a feeling I can't hide
feeling happiness inside.
Twinkle, twinkle, be your man.
How I wanna hold your hand.

CHRIS BY PHILIP-LORCA DICORCIA

Chris, 28 years old
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, $30

As I learned early
to draw the dollar -
an 's', 
some numbers
and two vertical lines,
with Chris it was simple

It was like he had rehearsed.
His small hands
unfastening my button fly,
reciting a four times table
by rote.

We met no more than seven times
according to my diary
when he 'disappeared.'

Afterwards, my journeys west
grew short. I felt
his breath behind my neck the one time
in the car and saw his shadow
in the parking lot

lengthening towards me.

OH WHAT A LUVVERLY WAR!

Oh what a luuverly war we had!
Didn't you go and weren't you glad?
And wasn't it muddy and wasn't it sad?
And wasn't you hungry and hurting bad?

Oh what a luvverly war we made!
All the fun of a hand grenade!
Fetch the shovel. Fetch the spade.
Bury the sacrifice you paid.

Oh what a luvverly war that's gone!
Let's plant poppies for everyone.
Let's build graves til Kingdom come.
Then bomb each other just for fun.

Oh what a luvverly war that's here!
It's been coming a hundred year,
since the silence became the cheer,
and black shirts grin from ear to ear.