Saturday, 21 November 2020

I wish you to return to that society of which you have up to this untoward event formed an ornament without any such stain (DRAFT)


O Urchin heart hangs on lip done 

in almost every tender node 

rehearsing the cloud bilges over 

a distant capital panorama 

pillockery of the old Head Boy 

in sizeable portion of the cliff faces

they have dug their hills in 

to kiss the Heron Tower  

under 1,000 recession fed tropical fish

remember whilst proselytising their lists 

of blasted and blessed again 

tow ourselves in bedrooms

always the half-life of 

Trojan Lord Bucketheads in

huffed metres pungent box 

hedges guffawing the prow 

baton handed in secret 

maisonette where is our 

socialist interlude? Mr. Terrier Mask,

F.K.A Hungry Q.C. split on the fence 

you sit upon intransigently

the blood dries in a pool of blackguard

everything again impossible

on this tax stiff night! and to be reduced 

to the round table of bronze goers 

recruiting miles nostril piled 

suck this winklepickler 

dress code for agency death cult 

does not supervise but mandates the pure hate 

of the continuity of life to think itself 

a soul in a strange factory of incentive

missing to what? clasp a language 

of protest or the beach in migraine 

stool pigeons on spires we are only 

free to send you on your love assignment,

this isn't a joke i'm really 

in this cashless ringworm 

disposing myself to myself in dust plume

the days of military fortifications

subsided, gone even to 

Westminster City Council Housing

in creeping notice to press air

out sound proofed rooms 

or an Arts Council pale coup 

which fails to kill all the juice bars in Angel,

alas back to the roundtable of 

bronze age milk idiots starling over 

decimated ready to work forms