This Is Crispin

It’s six-thirty. City drinks.
Crispin sidling in: Hi Dimitri,
Hi Rick. Clinking.

Simplistic chimps. Rich twits
in wi-fi mist, pinstriping in illicit strip pits,
high fiving, drinking Kirin,
dipping digits in thrift inhibiting whitish sniff.
Crispin distils his philistinisms:
“Girl in mini-skirt? Kinky bitch.
Girl with shiny lipstick? Rim-licking bint.”
Crispin sticks his crisp fifty
twixt Cindy’s tits.

In chichi vinyl spinning district,
Crispin’s in with Ministry’s VIP list:
DJ Micky Finn mixing glitch
with grimy D ‘n’ B
with slinky Mississippi riffs:
MCs rip mics. Chic girls in tightly
fitting PVC bikinis.

It’s midnight.
Crispin, with his vivid wick-dipping instinct,
digs this Irish-Finnish hybrid chick:
idyllic lips, stripy highlights, pink skin-bib.
Fit! thinks Crispin, circling, kissing his thin cig.
“Hi, I’m Cris!”
Miss Hybrid sniffs icily, implicit diss.
“I’m Izzy.”
Timid minx, thinks Crispin, I’ll mimic MTV vids:
grinding his hips, lip-syncing lyrics, dysrhythmic twisting.
Izzy cringing.

With Izzy’s midriff libidinising him,
Crispin isn’t shy:
“Izzy, FYI, I’m this city bigwig
I’m fricking rich, I’m witty,
my stylist thinks I’m dishy.
With girth, with virility,
my dick is my gift.”

“If pigs fly, dimwit. Which gift is it: Cystitis? Syphillis?”
is Izzy’s biting criticism.

I’ll fix this prissy bitch, Crispin thinks,
slipping pills in Miss Finn’s gin.
It’s sixty mins ‘til Izzy’s sky high:
iris tiny, bliss rising, frigidity sinks.
Crispin sidling with impish grin,
“Hi Izz, try my pricy whisky drink, I insist!”
flicks his glinting wrist: shiny Swiss bling.
Izzy’s visibly dizzy.

In Crispin’s nippy Mitsi
with its rims spinning
Izzy’s lying flimsy.
Gripping spindly pins, Crispin sticks it in.
His hi-fi inflicts: P. Diddy, Limp Bizkit, Will Smith, Sting.
Crispin thinks: this is brill!
Drilling Izzy dry.

It’s six thirty - first light.
Ditching Izzy, Crispin splits.
PC Sid Grist finds Crispin driving wildly.
“PC Grist, this is silly, will fifty British fix this?”

Flinging him in clink,
PC Grist finds spliffs, pills,
billy whizz within Crispin’s silk shirt.
“My, my, sir – rich pickings!” Sid chirps,
“big illicit picnic!”.

Sid sits grinning
whilst Crispin strips,
his dignity dwindling:
Sid firmly frisks his pimply thighs,
his ribs, his shins, his shrinking
winky, his milky skin,
inch by inch,
PC Sid finds Crispin an itty-bit ticklish.

Crispin’s crying: “Filthy pig! This is impinging my civil rights!”
“Civil rights, is it? I think civil rights is silly,” Sid sings,
bringing his sin disciplining birch
within sight.
“Crispin, this is my hitting stick.
Hitting stick, this is Crispin.”