when the riddy is astern

the valley of colne

and the vehemence of poverty

runs from the shores upland

when that tide is on the upturn

and the spectre of revolution

rising from its mire pools

and the estates is straining

like muscled tension

i see the ghost of heads and arms

smuggling silent guns across

the misty morning borders

between sanity and the tenement blocks

in what will become a violent rebellion

born from the drug littered stairwells

and damp alleys of fermenting ill and discontent in these depression times that overthrows the stupid lays of order an upheaving of the lard and the slick and the political fuck a bromidal cleansing of those concrete sores

there is a particular judge

a blubbery blueberry jello of a man

with a spiteful disdain

that goes beyond callous

in his corrupt assuation

and its arse licking

furthering the interests of the state

ive seen the colour of its tongue

i know where he lives

and as a few and i round the house

i can see him half running, half waddling wailing no nos as i aim my hand gun first i shoot him in the leg which half snaps he is lying on the floor his wet squid like face beating and frantic his twisting in the slow catherine wheel of panic i am handed a baseball bat i slowly beat him with the long swing of vitriol in revenge taking as much pleasure in each dull thump as in the great alive elation of the kill it is soon to be his hands a pulp his arms and legs are cracked and matted misshapen to his trousers but not his head i want him to feel the final moment i want him to be the symbol torch and flame i set him alight we meant to use the petrol as furnace for the larger houses here in cassio but this is a personal emblem and it is a truly worthy goodbye the charring pain seared grotesque across his forid face and the ritual of the smoke and his blistered eruption makes a disgusting but apt pall to his bigoted judgement his fat wet lips still twitching and his eyes open one burned like a droll wink