the Parliament House, or Dung Market (Draft)

 

Like Todays Story of the Shirt

a plateful of sundry wretches 

in such a way that they could 

only have endured it, but ask 

on about the villages?

your Middlesex and Epping forest

happy people like pilchards in bottom

cask under cook the dome of sky, 

where nothing is wasted nothing is spoilt

frizz salver piss in a pot look

or hang off spit and ill-blood

even if you have no property

by the nightshirt liniment enjoying the anon?

squabbling on a livelihood

I don't much care for beautiful 

buildings run over with flowers, 

Bastion builds flashing on off 

a ward-mote leads to factory garden

bibbing in sun before the 

looted scaffolding comes down 

Adrian Glasspool, last resident 

we cannot maintain '26 acres of land

for one person' blood hooked 

stack commuter sprawl w/ broken 

statist one by one for flogging 

proper down the metropolitan line 

mortarboard tradition staggers

to a croupier fireside chewing 

nothing much but embers 

of prole-whispers romeo y julieta

gives us bad chests solidarity 

comrades signing off for lack

of cap touch to the very cleanest 

of beautiful souls

earldom starves in the fiend 

of modest deliberation;

like a charred linnet buff

burning for burnings sake 

tend sideways for attrition of one 

market denominator pierrot on

true-hearted behind the News Corp drawbridge 

what shape our bananas have got to be, 

and all that kind of thing or

a high-leviathan foisted arbitrage

like the gaffer's yonder; 

and expert experts form permalinks 

of Continentalist stanchions 

to and fro in worry, 

one handbook to another, belayed

send us up a glass to drink then!