Police Child Sex interrogation Room (Mounted Branch)

Peace Triangle (uvw), 2020

crystal laminated floor vinyl, 75cm x 60cm

not saving but drowning (DRAFT)

Glebe potted in hypertension

the garment cloches 

a national jeremiad 

in representing no people

o'ere the mess

crossbred before we set sail

on stewed grass so green 

cup of tremens wet 

to crash the bitterness 

of preachers from palace 

to palace and moped up with 

fair-weather friends 

House of Lords (Whisky Tasting Book/Distorted portcullis painted by mouth), 2020

210cmx160cm Brass enamel on household paint 

(enlarge for better quality image)

pissed hands in Leicester Sq. (DRAFT)

Good cheer of nightshade draining 

gourmet pellets out on 

nothing, this eczema tongue 

sticks dear beloved

marriage is a dusty excuse 

for ecchymosis on pelvis 

where's blood with your chock 

on living good 

to a snapped downgraded eat

my minded business again,

I sleep a year on alimony 

House of Commons (Golf Score Book/Distorted portcullis painted by mouth) 2020

210cmx160cm Brass enamel on household paint 

(enlarge for better quality image)

I AM GRATEFUL (DRAFT)

Brass fox horn on bony excrescence

going home broken flumes of sad pat

having the whip hand shroud in ranunculus

rose heavenly the gold cup of reason

or quenched black versions pissed in spasm 

to rebid love unworthy done for marigold,

I carry with me long run

into imagined voices clogging a vogue

heart to share-hold 

a gastronomic life is of no real importance

in these dithering starres 

S.O.S the milk gravy

cry out in vain brotherhood,

the toxic monster is on his wetting stone

in morbid psychology with no more tonics
to antiquate I now leap to rue vue 
no sharing now and never again 
this planting on each others stands, 
or known in backwash departee 

punched out protecting the currency

in your played pair of Oxford fakes

the shoe box rammed with

mad cash the money by grab dredge 
all over the walls all over the floor 
in the heights of tide in the chartered depths 
off your neck the earnest bounce 
makes a blind enchant boll at crown 
now dole walla, 

to find another coeval in den
on cobbled tooth spent to last 
the draft horses of day 

Fontanelles (Social Distance), 2020

SERE, 2020

Oil on canvas, 45x45cm  Painted on my behalf in Dafen, Shenzhen. Based on Christopher Hitchens own ‘Lashed to the Mast’ experience for Vanity Fair 2008.

Libertines at the Palace, 2020

Oil on canvas, 45x45cm  Painted on my behalf in Dafen, Shenzhen. Depicting the lighting fixtures present in the libertines palace in Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom by Pier Paolo Pasolini.

LEAVE MEANS LEAVE (DRAFT)

Box boy bruised cockles a spasim in tricot,

blaggard look out spikes in my red barite 

hammering the fully clothed germane types this is

a Georgian revivalist catacomb scenario

if bonded by air and the slow decline of parkour 

leaves us in grave lament! 

a big take at the depthless nights,

its passing dingy or mock bridge encompassing

the whitest ridge tips of discourse 

further along my bowels a blue boat 

sinks the contest and there is no gaming isotopes! 

you only game yourself to bits

on behalf of the Home Office,

I Tawse the Younger instate all in the room

its a Friday luncheon raid, Madame!

the xenophobes play Mahler Piano rolls

ich ging mit Lust durch einen grünen Wald

the potato salad just is everyday LIFE, 

don't quibble Goodbye! Goodnight! 

to our Leavers Hip Hip Hooray! Hip Hip Hooray! 

Come, boys/girls there is more on Tuesday 

centurion facility service will put paid 

to a Hornet Feast! they do all for none 
and none for all 
fuck em' all pull em' up against the wall

spread those place settings 
and check those names,

Mahlers too drab for parting ways 

boombox the hell gates 

it isn't a reach around meant for Danube beauty!

this is the swelling party trick further down tide

whatever it is you are getting sunk 

such was the day for our regiment,

these hard and shiny things 

200 hours a week in rooms above you

below you is fun, in the cabman shelter 

fobbing off the scab scene, 

those cretics with city plod ethics 

confiscated work in bin rooms 

talk of dour hours long run into 

eyelids and bums, dossier dossier

there is nothing to love here, 

in this hamstrung heart

this room of sodium so easily cut fine

to take my biting cingulum body 

where thy is angels? dry-haired

the cuspids are raised out by mothers

early in wet beds a cottony of shame

worsened in weave cutting 

LEAVE MEANS LEAVE (DRAFT)

I put all my enemies in my top pocket

to fill a glass beneath them 

so they can look through me, 

most of them now under water refuse 

my drunk petition to sing 

to fill a glass for them to see, 

protesting today is finished 

on yesterdays broken remit 
O’ this glass of water 
would need to be of Sweet Chestnut! 

instead Rowelond and Olyver,

in good curtsy of tit for tat

breaks off in peacock feather

don't arise at the daffodils sick with 

fever until I change it to be so, 

to fill a glass to! fill one more persistent!

in temperance or anonymity I sit here 

the wood through trees in morning 

and eve, I sit here in hysteric 

masoch peasant tradition
the laggard smithed sleep with outliers

with this glass of water to be Sweet Chestnut! 

I loe to haste in brine 

my rage is kept in 

DIE HARD broken indices 

the people of England drink for me

the tin Tower of Babel 

but there is no whole body when its 

dark and lively!

phouka inebriate in fern trees 

see all the glistening bottles 

see all the mothers past Christmas

see it all in a millennial spasm!

spit it out always dark 
the distended veins on the carpet 

sobered seva not for more

but uphill the exalted court gold with piss

the eternal mark to church to sophists 

you can carry on

trust me the bracken south runs

into my mouth the noble hop

back to place like sticks and stones

kept on Aperol the dark emerald

spitting before the cuts with Keats & Shelley 

I rolled on Gramsci, he doth not sleep here 

tho but in the reef of knives

there is no sea no matin 

compulsory mirth flogging me a garden,

flogging me the sea

Reviver Otto, 2018

A 2018 Calendar of drawings based on Kim Kwang-Il's experiences.

'We are supposed to think there’s an imaginary motorcycle 
and we are supposed to be in this position 
as if we are riding the motorcycle. 
And for this, we pose as if we are airplanes ourselves. 
We are flying.'

M'17-J'19 (DRAFT)

Anywhere the dolomite head

lays smitten of rest 

with dank jambs in cove

the sky dirt joke puts up 

with floorboards of these 

hissing canisters a sheet of 

chrome smiles to ruck, 

a hard knock on the hip

in Vienna I watched Dresden 

people turn into shadows easily, 

the 100 meter ukase the order speaks 

of an uninjured party

into this our new man,
ostrich head a face I love

you said that would not stop now 

Our Client if you require 

amendments please contact

the sender of which this is not, 

Our Client the 100 meter ukase the order speaks 

at home, is death in you yet
forms a carapace of contempt 

airtight perimeters of this 

wintered slip transmission

rattles out in empty hotels 

unhurt from the habit of boring outriders

with all love and kindness of

this bashed division of solitary 

spectres harnessed in old chestnuts 

now carbon, all this love and 

bromide seen around my village 

the most mettled heart 

is mine and mine alone 

and I keep it in an outdoor 

storage box with 10 year 

anti-rot warrants on my head