Sunday 16 May 2021

GET LIVING PLC listed to sell shares on the Guernsey Stock Exchange (draft)

O apparatus the Action Plan downed

inside is starched thermoplastic now

an object position has taught me 

the hyper inflated outcry 

visitors under globe 

to be careful ‘hailing’ 

politics is not politics game over 

I conceded at University College

of Estate Management, a life

Ex cultu robur of Horizons on Queen's Rd, 

cut out of sky falls the eventide

a member ex-officio abide with me in hand and hand alone

out of life's little day 

the earths joys grow dim

dimmer in all around I see

my closing eyes to be

still minus that on teeth, help me 

Get Living here  

backed biting hopeless boughs to be willing

 closed on bloodthrift 

run over with flowers, 

little guillotines in the skies

 flashing on and off 

as ward-mote leads to Garden Bridge™

bidding in the sun of your eyes

Dear Adrian Glasspool, redacted through said sunless eyes

dear last burrowed resident we cannot maintain 

'26 acres of land for one person’ & hence 

blood hooked under a 

stack commuter sprawl broken bits

flogging to a croupier fireside chews

nothing much but embers 

of prole-whispers 


give us bad chests solidarity 

how do you eat with lips of scrim? 

&charred linnet buff burning for burnings sake 

tend sideways for attrition of ivory bale

broken in all i see around me 

my closing eyes to be 

the earths joy grows dim

in all around I see

my closing eyes to be

still minus that on teeth, 

I put down the Balance Sheet 

in my hands curl inside 

reserve position 

there are birthrights 

& therefore smallholdings of puck dons 

retrieve the forelocks, 

they are to be boiled and cooked later 

release red fuses in my armistices how harmful 


O bending verge 

we will do everything

work with anyone, 

overcome every obstacle 

in our path to jobs and prosperity

is a dead body inside a living body 

and all our hornets 

are all your hornets i am / 

your hectare pricked on a swooning sigh

footholds curacies of nightlight  

 buried, England’s brag-corpsing

O much to work ahead the likes 

of which I cannot see the end of

contain the ideal of the buried, 

bucolic nulled up inside my home

 the watchdog Matthew Allwight in the shrub-land, 

come hither this 

untouched heart that goes below it is 

 coiled after all/  passionately delineated

by my separate mouths.