Mr Punch’s Panic Show

Black dogs slack jaws snot on noses John and Polly at the seaside pinching each other’s arses they’ll marry and curse the day the roses in Jack Ketch’s garden are crimson their sap thicker than water are you lost sonny it’s okay don’t worry I’m sure they’ll come back a grating voice from somewhere over there that’s gammon you must come with me in his dream purple and grimy Judy whacks him if you put a seashell to your ear you can hear the sea actually it’s your own blood roaring through you waves smash the shingle the moon’s a banana not even an attempt at realism that’s one wife for you what a precious darling creature singing Anarchy in the UK to the tune of Greensleeves I’m come to make you sing on the wrong side of your mouth fuck them and their law fuck you Police Constable I don’t want Constable David Harsent and Harrison Birtwistle and lesser others fancying there’s something tragic or poetic or symbolic or essential or existential about Mr Punch’s shoddy tale full of sound and fury signifying nothing less than nothing he must be a gardener what a pretty tree he has planted for a prospect I feel sick we’re out of suncream it starts raining on Punch’s empty body his head is empty too he likes the stars the pinprick stars they wink and twinkle clink and tinkle in the empty night the night seeping a black cloud black water lungs gasping filling with it giddy with it drunk with it punk with it pied ninny asleep not dreaming vacant as a holiday no vacancies here sorry everything’s closed the crimson curtains the Punchman’s mouth.


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