Satanic banks are bloating into ruby-crowned leviathans
who clamp their clenching, flexing, metal-knuckled, hairy tentacles
around Democracy’s contracting, fast-retreating testicles.
Murder-merchants, cardboard cut-outs, billionaire Don Juans
grace the White House. Up ahead glint grinning petroyuans.
In desperation, flares are shot into an Arab’s bonfire
right next to where a taunted Russian bear repairs his empire
beneath an evening sky that gasps with flailing thunderclaps.
Western society is going to collapse.
Lapdog Number One, Britannia, drunk on cut-price Buckfast,
slumps pissy-knickered, gutter-bound, unsure whose cock to suck first.
Her gang of dhimmis vie in tournaments of out-group preference,
in contests of unnatural, unnational, snivelling deference.
Her handcuffed cuckold husband Freedom squirms where government
roadblocks
form chains of chains round Speakers’ Corner and a fenced-off soapboxclimbed instead by traitors shouting for Britannia’s murder
and for the banning of the miniskirt and bacon burger.
She shuffles round the White House, whining, begging for some scraps.
Western society is going to collapse.
Lapdog Number Two, Germania, crushed still with self-hatred
for some already-punished crime that half the world had aided,
thinks flattened cities strewn with children turned to smouldering carrion
and forty years encircled by a marching Marxist barrier
are not enough, and in a flaunting menopausal crisis
floods herself with rapists, paedophiles and fans of Isis.
Now she can’t walk to the bakery without her pepper-spray,
threatens anyone who moans it wasn’t like this yesterday,
pretends that nothing’s changed and downs another double schnapps.
Western society is going to collapse.
Young hearts that throb with creativity are poked like cattle
through a branding brain-machine that programmes them to prattle
at all the wished-for frequencies, to preen and propagandise,
to long for when the last strong, self-respecting, blond-haired man dies.
Such men are evil, after all. And national pride is rancid.
Those who disagree must all be vilified and censored.
Virtue must be signalled at each tiny opportunity.
Every nook and cranny must be stuffed with moral purity.
A class of clones (all Betas) quotes the slogans back and claps.
Western society is going to collapse.
Love is out of date. What counts is women’s independence.
Females are so strong and equal. Men must show repentance.
A woman’s place is in the boardroom like a proper doer
(not kitchens, nurseries, or down a mineshaft or a sewer).
A man must point out gender wage gaps using clever sidesteps
and lift up cups of herbal tea with non-existent biceps.
And if a woman slaps him, he can’t strike back and oppress her.
He mustn’t talk to women. They are not there for his pleasure.
And thus the birthrate plummets. Our collective backbone snaps.
Western society is going to collapse.
The wheels of evolution, for millennia, were spinning.
Now men are suddenly not men and women are not women.
Instead though, you can be a polysexual demigender
non-binary transfeminine queer masculine-of-centre
varioriented intersexual genderfluid
pan-demiflux agnostic Muslim neo-pagan druid,
convince your seven-year-old stepson he’s the same thing also,
pump him full of hormones, graft some titties on his torso,
then slice his little balls off and replace them with some flaps.
Western society is going to collapse.
The chasm through the middle’s cracking ever wider, deeper.
The left wall’s turned to rubble. Now the right wall starts to teeter.
On either side spring up the flags, the knives, the Molotov cocktails.
The clones are clad in face-masks and the workers shod in hobnails.
Magistrates fling patriots (rebranded now as “haters”)
into cages jammed with homicidal bearded traitors.
Beneath cathedral spires and marble statues carved in grand shapes
hand-grenades and acid hurtle through the concrete landscape.
The dice are long since thrown by now. There isn’t a “perhaps”.
Western society is going to collapse.
