Gardens glided
police radios square small
corner of concreted earth
frigged in demoted waters
as red sunken quite
rear lit riot-quota
cut out to move in a livelier
fashion on lidocaine,
the vetted turnery
in time of bedside
applications
on DWP death grant
sad crescent-shaped
private grounds
private grounds
still lure on raw
battleground of siege estate so
live and work
on the shingle, over the walkie
talkie barely while
all these houses pass
through my heart
to paraphrase the solidarity of
themselves dispirited, moving
to a farm in Gloucester
not on economic dogma
pledge-'I am a fantasticalist!'
ever attempted
The Eighteenth Brumaire
no and no the ghosts
are not chained
history breaks
this sured word
stone into psychodrama
with plumes on price borage
unwinding in low-born
vetting the enterprise
limit of British moral life
gone to mass the
influence of
bunting is custom made handle,
wonderful the entrance door
hard gamed to motte
slabs kept in situ
where curtains sensate property as
trial ends for outside
and it isn't yet to the streets
brooms masted cold
in their portfolios
hard gamed to motte
slabs kept in situ
where curtains sensate property as
trial ends for outside
and it isn't yet to the streets
brooms masted cold
in their portfolios
