pickled hypothetical miserablizzard

liver-ducked foible-gras within. Outwardly

emulating erudite australopithecines.

accept repentance in painted rainbow ralph

somnambulantly spatch-cocked over

enervated man-melt.


 bubble-burst worst-night-everwürst

rolling in rot-gut, rye and lope-home hurt

imbibed in inch-shots of inevitability

noting “never-again-woe-is-me”’s

guzzled, giddy and gleeful to gin-full skinful.


brigand-brain buckle-swashed blackout

eagerly entreat euthanasia on emergence.

rancid stain-mouthed pork repast, baconated,

orange-lemon-pink prairie oyster doghair dram

curative subterfuge, glumly glugged admonishments

certainty of recovery crushed in discovery of

additional celebratory days of debauchery.



“Go home, barstool, you’re drunk” John says, tripping over his seat. The producer’s ears prick up. “YOU SIR!”

Smash cut to a ten years later, “Go home, you’re drunk” is ABC’s most popular TV comedy having run for ten years. John sees an inanimate object and howls “Go home, you’re drunk!” at it. The audience burst into hysterics. A belligerent John, sick of the same catchphrase 111 times an episode turns to them…

“GO HOME AUDIENCE, YOU’RE DRUNK!” he had said. They had turned instantly, a fury glazing over their eyes. They had thrown their “Go Home, You’re Drunk” souvenir tankards at him, lacerating his face until it resembled minced beef. Crowds had torn his arm off as he left the studio. It haunts his dreams. “GO HOME, YOU’RE DRUNK: GO HOME YOUR DRUNK STAR GOES HOME, DRUNK“ hilariously headlines the story in the trades. He drains another whiskey. He had it all: money, celebrity, potatoes. A rat scuttles over his hand. “Ugh, KILL IT, KILL IT WITH FIRE!” he shouts.

The producer’s ears prick up… “YOU SIR!”




Christmas in Sumatra:

Apes have paper hats,

Smearing brandy butter

On a sacrificial cat.

Tiger’s licking envelopes,

Addressing to his Nan,

Tapir’s wrapped,

Gold-paper trapped:

Struggling in the sand.


They sit down to their noon repast

Suddenly: a shotgun blast!

Santa dressed in khaki coat

Buckshot-blasts Bear’s arse.

Leopard pulls his hunting knife

Vanishes in trees.

Santa range-finds ‘rangutan;

Trigger softly squeezed:


He parts the Ape & face,

It floats off in the breeze.

Leaping from the undergrowth:

Leopard shivs his knees.


Suddenly the cops appear,

Handcuffing the big cat,

“Santa’s more endangered lad,

You’re really in the shat.”

~ Leland Velociraptor, 2013