Sounding

Discovering warm yellow bedsocks on the mantle

squeezed into mugs of lager

from Bantu stands, far over a blood stained velt.

Where five million throats call for freedom... FREE NELSON MANDELA

Meanwhile Pik Botha sweats yellow pus into a can of stymied lager,

industrial non union strength.

Five million angry typewriters chloroformed into ranks of silence

by a tentacled arm of egotistical surprise not seen since the

re-union of Neolistic, Nihilistic Nazi's nourishing their dreams

of Nationalistic annihilation while a cowboy plays six guns

with radio active phallic symbols, prematurely ejaculating their

concentrated sap of death into a infertile inferno of I.U.D. inhumanity,

destroying women's lives leaf like, clinically deflowered and rendered

sterile by a phallic fallacy of phantasmal fornication on the part of

imbecilic ballistic arms manufacturers and their

self created children of the armageddon toys, fingering and twisting the limbs of

their Rambo dolls, transforming transformers into

indeterminate lumps of sterile plastic, desperately trying to fondle and caress

the warm sickly perfume of a napalm nightmare

invented by their fathers in sordid tribute to the American way of life

so much longing for an excuse to prove it was worth sending it's

nations youth into a war created solely for the political appeasement of

a theory called Domino since toppled by those pinko communist bastards and

peace campaigners waiting only to subvert the god fearing freedom loving

nuclear family, which statistically couldn't give a fuck

about war or peace as long as the side they sold arms to wouldn't

try to ask why people would be continuously replicated into

tasteless little kin volk clones of some shithead meddling American

meddling with the subservient scum of a constitution, which always pleaded the

filth amendment if somebody ever thought of changing the fucking thing.

1986