A POEM CALLED DEAD DEBBIE - QUITE A SENSELESS ONE!! JUST ONE OF MY STRANGE LITTEL WRITINGS!

1. DEAD DEBBIE OF OXFORD STREET
It was a very cold night that night when the bus driver said to the policeman can I
have a kilt.
A man in a kilt did sit a wanderin.
A wanderin and a weepin all mysterious and seldom.
The kilt did show its pale ice and the ice did show itself back.
In snow cold flesh upon the pelt.
At least the child all pure and pudding did eat the E and die.
I like it when children die.
The fake Myra Hindley mother did crie.
In the mud the stick odour did say with a great and forceful vile dismay.
Yearh fuck off you fucking grotesque rogue.
You never were welcome:
And never shall be.
Coughing up the cheap cola ice.
I had the ice and I said it forthwith and thrice.
Your Cancer throat don’t harm me.
In Debenhams of Oxford st.
You are a crap scholar of the higher realm in the realm of the higher forthwith.
Forthwith with foolish idiotic pearls.
A woman gone mad! cried the
Cried the
Cried the
Cried the

2. Full stop. Next sentence. New paragraph.
By the freak in trouble in the woolly coat with Ibiza on her ragged cuff.
Ibiza for the idiot.
I blame Pete Tong as he has a long Tong
I fear ABOLISHMENT.
I fear the further anorak twisted anorexic
And in her shroud of deepest shadowing shady sickness.
I will be released.
You will feast on me says the anchor to the rake.
My death is pulsating to the crowd of the lunatic
In the mind of the real seal.
The real seal is my meal.
I don’t eat only
Curds and whey.
I can’t eat for fear of monks on the path,
In the wet tarmac and between cylindrical pollution.
Crops up the crap.
Crap is crap.
Crap is time.
Crap is the crap I sit and hide.
I have no longer the freezing frozen frigid fingers of frail desire.
A cold cough up is as the old fry up.
I expect an applause.
I hold forthwith that it may be so in my cold feet.
My feet are cold and my lung is dry.
My lobes are hanging like play things from a tree.
Ended in a sham.
Sham 69 with a big fat zit.
It is that hollow and so spotty.
A spot will ruin what time could have told if
The man in iron bars and ball bearings with steel sheaths and rock solid geometrical
gates

3. Had once allowed us
Unfold
As a pattern on the childish crux of paper plated rapture.
It all fell flat at the murmur of the clinic.
HIV is hives and hives is a sort of sausage.
It tastes like boiled blood in ivy,
And boiled mushrooms, all grey and flaccid.
Wrinkling its mischeivious face.
Now I am accused sirs of vandalising the
More darker aspects of the face.
The ponies see their breath and there is a sharp light strooing in the burnt nostril of
steam.
I make up plageurisms as I am a schizophrenic.
Imagine a plageurism on the clot.
A clot on the brain.
Vomit and die
Dirty fucker.
Leave me alone.
And let me be.
In pace I sit.
In peace I see.
Laughter, nylon and my septum is creasing me.
My fanny smells of crisps?
Who would use such a vulgar and detrimental apartaid of the space?
Crude and vulgar segregation and annihilation.
The dogface foul moist stale family next door.
Watched and heard in fluffy .
And a pervert just saved my life.
At least I hung on for the three seconds of pure perversion.
When purity is a manifesto of manifests.
Slit wrists of payrolldom.
Polydomiedom.
The girl is a dead cause.
And no man will dissect her woes.
Only raincoats and dirty panflets.

4. They come to save you, but we shall save our soul.
As he slams down the phone with the tuff muff raining.