IMPERIAL PORK

It's an interesting feeling every time one returns home from watching England-Scotland at the rugby... it's always such an Amphitheatre of Antagonism at t'big pub where I watch it -- even though I sit in a place of relative calm -- and it takes a long time for any semblance of serenity to kick in as my brain heals. 

Thankfully Chez Buffy is a veritable Fortress of Solitude tonight, and I could not currently be more sedate, sitting here with my friendly glass of sherry.

So I think to myself, what better time to thrown in a little piece of crazy? 

I've been meaning to, but inspiration [such as it is!] has eluded me, preferring to write stuff that, y'know, makes sense. 

This is a one-off stream-of-consciousness piece I thought I'd shove in when no-one's looking... 'tis one hundred lines so you may just wish to walk on... and very quickly [!]

Sanity resumes tomorrow. 

* * * 

'THE PORTICO OF DISGUST'

Look.
Just look.
Look in the mirror. 
Do you see it, there? 
He's looking right back at you. 
The Emperor Pig. 
In his swanky Bonaparte gear. 
Teeth white as cocaine.
A shame.
Grinning smugly. 
Grinning inanely. 
You've caught his shame. 
Him? Blissfully indifferent, now. 
He's got what you want. 
You want what he's never going to give you back. 
Take all the flags down and replace them with his. 

Nauseous, you turn. 
It's time to be gone. 
The door handle? Won't turn. 
You're trapped. 
The room plummets. 
Elevator in space. 
You hold on to the sink for dear life. 
Is your life dear? 
You wanted to end it, earlier. 
So, what's changed? 

Outside, the Earth stops revolving.
Shocked into stillness.
Then... reverse spin.
Dry spin. 
Superman. 
The sky pinkness. 
Stocks plummet, too. 
The President commits suicide. 
Straight out the top window. 
Scrape him off the pavement!
New shovels, please. 
The iron melts. 
Too much flame. 
Autoignition temperature too low. 
They call me Mister Fahrenheit.  
Four-five-one. 
Penguins whisper amongst themselves. 
Clueless key-masters  
Eat themselves. 
And the whole High Commission
Grinds itself to dust. 
Dust.
Dusk. 

The Goddess of the Moon, She smiles. 
Sales of toothpaste
Go stratospheric. 
1955, all over again. 
So downtown, the rickety band 
Wipe off the sugary cobwebs 
And play 'The Maple Leaf Rag' 
As the traffic lights change
From pink to light blue.
A single pink suede shoe
Awaits, on a cushion. 

The Prince frowns. 
But how can he know
Cinderella lies in her makeshift grave
Upside down? 
Head-first into the well, she was. 
Ugly sisters both up the duff, now. 
It's what they always wanted. 
They laugh.
Sister Hens. 
But no eggs for the poor people. 
They're still screwed in all holes; 
Left, right and centre. 
Their blood paves the pavements. 
No-one cares; 
Too busy with their heads up their arses. 

While up above, 
Our hero's hanging on for dear life. 
He's on the hands of the old clock tower 
Which strikes half past six. 
So he falls off. 
Naturally.
They'll call it 'suicide', 
Because that's what they do. 
The Unbiased Broadcasting Corporation;
The usual suspects, indeed. 
Elsewhere, the Princess of Power? 
She's no good to us now. 
Still stuck in traffic. 

The reason is
They're still cleaning the flying pigshit
Off of the road.
It gets better? 
Population: ten billion. 
And BOOM! 
Let the proletariat hum softly. 
They need their mantras, 
As the Emperor pours himself
A huge Napoleon brandy
And chugs.
The rest is silence.
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Author: Buffy Devane

Anxietist; Cheerleader; Captain Posh.

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