post year nil / untitled

Londons a silly slum borehole once more
Sorting through cheap
Canned soup
Oh to slurp on some peasant's
pottage
My beer smells like an heiress
My piss smells like beer
Working forward, walking toward
Making asses out of clay and scrap saw
Makes as about much sense as
Taking your wife to a brothel
and paying for corkage.

Save water - Piss in bottles.
Coca cola piss is poison.

Once we were Vikings here
living in Turndyke lane
Honoured to die over a trivial thing
rather than face the fiend within
feed the face to the blender-in
(now pikeys living alone in tudor grove)

It ain't 1897
 as if we aren't
Coupled to the Internet whore,
That's right, blame progress once more
For one's dilapidated &
onerus selves.

Casual saxophone
fictitious financies
Shellshocked
post-muddy & trenchant,
tortured ambivalence
(Say no to plastic).

Marx unravelled
admitting now
we have too much
freedoms of illusions of european summer
golfgrass and wine,
babes of the industrious & uniform line
hypocrit rose lording over manurities

Seems all this yawnworthy movement
resembles
paying one's death duties
in advance
The question is not
whether we exist afterwood
If in life existence so doubtful-
  , when you're
Near The precipice
The query is
What constitutes?
because strangewise I dont have a taste
for existence today.