The Mists of Don't Know Where

 

THE MISTS OF DON’T KNOW WHERE (Sic.)

The confusifications of a rambling verse-verser

 by Kingsley Beat innit:

 

I like to ramble on

And I’m woebegone to remember John;

The big bloke played a mean guitar –

And Pranksters sought The Light of Jah

 

But jarring were the stenoscapes

And Neologistic walls of hate

They woke jus’ past The Midnight Hour

Then soar a ghost above The Tower.

 

And men of punctuated fate

Had double-locked the sacred gate

Until the wordless trundled home

To start a brawl with… Anyone Home

 

Say ‘Sure, Ahh!’

 

Grown ups sanctioning murder;

That’s what I can’t abide

I don’t give a fook about your history –

Loving Death is worse than snide.

 

It’s evil, yes god dam it:

And never wins a cause;

So sort it out like grown ups

And feed everyone with yours.

 

There’s more than enough to go around.

Give ‘im a bite of your apple

And stop being such a nasty barst…

Death aint’ welcome in this chapel.

 

‘But these are hard times; complex times…’

… No: they’re fooking not;

Some of you have tissue

But all of us have snot.

 

The have nots and the have snots

And the tissues in between –

‘I wanna be a door’

is my favourite Mondegreen.

 

All hail the Rone Stoses

And spooneristic scenes

Of half-love and the half-torch

Of my dimly lit mind-dreams.

 

Thus, I cannot applaud

Your loved discord

And, shout-shamed once again,

Vouch for bludgeoning falling horse

That lands upon your friend.

 

Can I go now?

 

It started with a thought we might all resound with…

And ended in the mists of don’t know where. (Sic.)