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.
Look a highland trying to burst
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 Ariel 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