Poems by Kevin Hylands

Some Meretricious Facts Pertaining to Rat

a poem by

Kevin Hylands

Mer`e*tri”cious. Resembling the arts of a harlot;
alluring by false show; gaudily and deceitfully ornamental; tawdry.

My hair is high and my beard is thick
My golfing swing is deft and slick
I order food by use of hands
I smell it, taste it using glands.

O High Priest of TV Twittery
Polarize my pitches
Denigrate my
Carnal knowledge
Of Morbid Midlanders
And nubile leprechauns.

When I pass my driving test
I shall wear a ‘Darius’ vest.

Rat one day said to Gobshite O’Rourke
“The show’s not working we have to talk”
Rat’s new series ‘The Shame of Dogs’
Is something Kevin Hyland logs.

O just imbiber of ocelot lights
Visit me noondays
And pass loud wind
Emit gusts
Of such rankness and fervour
That Leather and Lenses commissions it.

When I pass my driving test
I shall drive to Worthing
Then I’ll drive to Wittering
Which is just a little West.

I Rat
Shall
Conquer
The Box
Just give me
Money
Stories
And buffoons
And I shall thee equip
With
Succulent
Documentaries
No bugger will watch.

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“Those are haemorrhoids, not Pretzels Mother!”

a poem by

Kevin Hylands

Alsetto porridge vies (in “its” own way)
With the greed of fat Atkinsons and brave svelt dirigibles
“You are the best Malcolm I ever ate dog chips over!”
Said Dermot O’Christos in a fit of pique fitness

I clamber towards your fettling loins in a chariot
Made of lascivious trout, municipal gout and faddy eaters of bum steaks
“You are a crust stolen from the bottom of a loaf called Mipper”
Said Georgie Phayel, the badger-tungsten merchant from (we’re not) worthing

Bruises on the dappled rump of mustard mothers spit roasted
As culinary pornography with a running commentary by Alan ‘Barry’ Parry.
A plump midlander with hair and a visigoth’s visor decides to make smut movies
Under the nom de plume Bartolomeo Bubbles – ‘He’s putting it in men – AGAIN!’

End
It
On
My
Mantra
Baby

The
muck
of
marmosets
is
not
a
fit
dish.

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Leather and Lenses or A Visigoth’s Parable

a poem by

Kevin Hylands

“Mother, MOTHER! The plethora-dogma stoat man hath arrived”
Said the beast of toxic mustard from the North
“Put him in the back room and call him Cyril and quickly or I’ll brim”
Said the stout blame-suffuser who once called Ruth Madoc ‘A Vast Haddock’.

Choose
The
Earnest
Television
Bum-doctor
Or
I
Shall
Have
No
Other
Option
But
To
Steal
From
Field mice

Crewe-filth Steven, you crave dark things in light entertainment
but watch for smells and bells and reprehensible
Hells spent with people called Uncle Mario.
I sail towards your vastness on a vehicle
made entirely of used linoleum, dog urine and the sand
from the toes of people such as Diss, Day and of course Cheaseman.

Do
Not
Go
Gentle
Into
That
Big
Shite
Or
The
Voles
And
Dog-moles
Will
Pester
Some
Broadcasters.

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The Finances of Menstrual Eggs

a poem by

Kevin Hylands

The thrusting violence of liquid animosity
is like a credit card in the hands of Lionel Jeffries.

The busty nonchalant of Mrs Mustard and Sir La-di-da Bum-laster
is like a tropical disease on hot buttered toast
served with guile and smile by the late Mickie Most.

It hurts to say it Mother
but Uncle smells of old greaze, dog flatulence and duodenal intensity.

Put
It
Away
Mildred
Or
I
Shall
Engage
In
Telephonic
Communication
With
Conditional
Rabbis.

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God, a Visceral Minotaur…

a poem by

Kevin Hylands

“God is randy Sandy, can you not see his new Vicarage?”
Asked the goat-foetid Esperanto speaking numismatist Lionel
“But grant me God’s benison and Venison and I shall hole thee in one sirrrah!”
And his new single ‘Gupta and Cheese items’, £7.47 is out now on clear vinyl.

Put
It
Away
Valerie
Or
I
Shall
Inform
Some
Doctors

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The maggot / bigot “symbiosis” doctor

a poem by

Kevin Hylands

Mesmeric sheathes of dog lunacy assail and assuage me
The “Lionel” in us all dissuades “Miriam”
But O beware, so so beware of tics and Micks and
The allegorical novellas of Paulo Coelho

Mustard on my brain
Mind gravel
Mind tobacco
A bath’s not a bath without bubbles
“Hey Bubbles, come in, the water’s lovely”
O you rank flatulent masturbator of the stoat
Inhibitor of the goat
Rye wry why facilitator of the beige coat

Carnal Vaseline-mongers eat only “soft” cheese and day old milk monitors
I am “Grenville” says the Visigoth vassal, “but I am Revin” says the divot doctor
But O concede, so so recede into anal vinegar and penile moths “mode”
And climb towards Chorley ( Central Lancashire ) to be born to Dirty Mary.

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Mutton and a feline spasm

a poem by

Kevin Hylands

“The miaow visors are here mother!”
Yelled the crucified satanist
Bruised by the beating of his visigoth

“But I don’t like that kind of stoat Uncle, it smells!”
Cried the redundant assistant producer
Surrounded by a bevy of beautiful bevies.

“Is it spring yet mother, is it spring yet dear?”
Ejaculates the costernated constipated
Dark spurter and passes loud poetic wind.

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Dark Spurts

a poem by

Kevin Hylands

My small Oirish ventilation system has
Overheated of late
And I have found dark madness
Behind my thyroidic eyes

Please help me Mummy
And Daddy Daddy stop that!

I blame lies, pies and flies
I grieve on toast and then some
O colonel leave that medicine
And return once more to a bottle of dreams

Please Uncle talk about it
And Daddy Daddy stop that!

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The Joyless Visigoth

a poem by

Kevin Hylands

I journey to your vastness
In a boat made of limes
You are jubilant and cranky
And stout and a god-monkey

I crown you with vim
And chronology, in order
To lampoon and redeem
In order to fool the dog-seas

Finally, and in deference
I become a masturbators
Tool, the shrivelled young
Of Love attack and kiss me.

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