sprawling shells
Will Big Halo go crazy, freak out? Like a schizo on wheels rolling down the Alps? Will Tiny Youth’s brave be under the pavement? We huddle for position as eyes form a circle. On the grounds of the ‘Imperial’ two feared cocks collide. Shells will settle this war. Smoke! The Tiny Youth draws:
“Your half mast pants waiting for a flood? & your shoes are holy like the Bible. Those four stripe trainers,
You better rip one off. Then they might pass for Adidas. Your neck collar dirty like a porn star. And a highland sheep is busting through your old padded coat? So take your smelly butt home & stitch it up…”
“Me await a flood? Yeah, your’e right. Though the nylon gathering at your feet shows it long passed. Your tight nylon pants stuck up your cheeks. Barry Sheene skids in your brief. Your brief is skiddy like an ice rink. So skate your smelly butt home & scrub with Daz in the sink…”
“Your head is tough like a coconut. & that hair is rougher than a ghetto. You knock out all teeth on afro-combs & your is skin bumpier than gravel stones. Your face is dark like Darth Vader. & did Moses part that gap in your teeth? I smell a cesspit pooling from your mouth, so take your scent to the sewer where your bad breath belongs…”
“On your head sits a drenched black poodle. & your skin is tougher than Bruce Lee. Your face is rounder than a full waxed moon & your skin is dry like sand. Your teeth resemble moldy cheese & your breath is even badder than Hitler. So take your moon face camouflaged as an eclipse & go hide on the dark side of the equator…”
“Your mother is dirty, paid every Tuesday, the post man drops wages in her sack. & your father is a dosser, man is lazier than dole. Drinks beer, blast farts, he’s stuck to the remote control. & that shack you live in is dusty. Dustier than a speedway track. So take your double-barrel nostril nose & go do some hoovering up…”
“There are cracks in my shack, on the ceilings, on the wall. I will fill them with polyfilla, when I see your mother – scraping that makeup off her wrinkly face. & your bald headed father reminds me of a Buzzard.
Scrounging for carcass on the African plains. You’re’ soft & boring like porridge. So in your lunch box pack your cheesy snack lyrics & go hold down your snake of drool – fool!”
The circle stays silent. We dare not laugh. At exploding shells on full hardened cocks. Mr Brown, adjudicator, judges – & declares – slowy, raising up the arm of the winner who bops & breaks the circle, fifty pats on his back. The shelled cock leaves with Jack.
Prose by Skendong: Shattered Dreams: Manchester City F.C.’s Lost Generation