Monday 11 October 2021






 O wall coils cut to an (e.g. human) warmth 

now dog-legged &hole stricken

I sing aloud from this edge & in your light 

Dear Sergeant Yobbo, 

a hurt leg trembling wild  

then your own  body trembling & shaking

to annoyance every effort in controlling the shaking

not the  pain.  The  pain isn't  even there,


your brightest human warmth 

assuming like other members 

the identity of a body who had died young 

& be made into braids of armaments 

& worships invisible now through the spy gash 

to you unmoved clinking ha'porth 

made your mouth to not smiling 

I speak through the Special Demonstration Squad 

using an alias of a stolen life, 

an exit strategy of said name of deceased child 

Sergeant Yobbo, O hole-strickened hook reaped 

tight my own itch 

a wraith spiral flickers my face

the hole of this wall! O

O I speak your mouths exit a bewitched helve 

sunk a knuckle to sunder of thorn by name 

by night you have taken poor duffer

stuffed mother & child on venal breads made nothing 

burns your lungs right off

Dear Sergeant Yobbo, 

O you have put in the cub 

got up the spout, the stick knocked thricely 

in the wind keenly this here; a policeman's child 

as a non-residential building 

section 144, LASPO does NOT apply

legal warning take notice 

to assume squatters' rights over the unfortunate's identity for the next four years

the identity of a boy who had died young

under evensong of a life misspelt a life mislaid 

& love of you 

Sarg Yobbo, ,

coughing, screeching  filthy  stuff

life entwined code weave out spy infiltrated gash

debasing of each wastlings 

now forsworn to be a forged life sundered 

in one's own' death certificate 


The documents Frederick Forsyth novel 'The Day of the Jackal' explained how to acquire in the name of a dead person & the practice has proved popular among those who would defraud the benefit system or who wish to travel abroad incognito.


of personhood avoid infant death or people aged over 16

with my hand set down on sorrow Mr Yobbo, 

O how many are in your creation & unreceived 

red furrows for me this broken lamp the emails have expired 

delivery to the following recipient failed permanently

blood caught O & to what many consider actual blood 

I give curses re-emerged fucking the asides,

/ dead votes, dad a shaft of light stricken white 

since you ruined my life Sarg Yobbo, 

closed to skin of mine swathed in vela 

to be held in covers & sheets

baby to be made into blackjack or baton upon this cosh

my name born in reverse of you a dead child 

or I 

I will break it open &

within a mouth of rolled & folded papers

form an improvised weapon of beermats, 

horse brasses, polo mints, shoelaces 

& boots squashed to form a cosh

 here remaining a stealth weapon 

Sargin to create a handle haft

& rounded head at the fold the child 

did set it down by name 

there a promise pass'd speak long-lost

shy blotted shilled of memory raked with holes 

a secret unit claw to grapnel nail

of a boy is dead is the whole data, 

personal,, irrational ,pellet, 

at I in this foisted bloodrot hail

Sarg Yobbo, 

let sorrow sway

this undid my name 

& made me at St Catherine's House a grappling hook 

It is conceivable that a hostile enquiry into the details you have given may result in you being presented with your own death certificate.

Yobbo spawn 

is boy to dog

a foul for what I speak

Do you remember when you fingered my lifehole!

made of me strange & want nothing 

to make all good formless of touch 

these arms of due furbish in homestead 

so sighs & tears cover me 

O prodding strange infinite

haloed &shuddered 

to hatred if it does not invert 

into love through & piercing laughter

who chokes for which all masks are intended 

as tender slanting edge of ‘morrow 

to incise a name a single blessedness to give curses

for 36 yobbos of philharmonic pitch

sang out Sarg, 

kiss my mouth of a boy inverted spells yobbo

itch unfaithed in Margaret Thatcher’s grain

bled sunk a knuckle of eviled blame

as to end end! to end life! to end wishes! break now

to high heavens lullaby roughcast & strung up 

once my name upon before

was an oath of twisted faces 

O each a year blunted dire working ‘light’

to brink finally, the path of gaps in between them; they were like little tapers, flickering & feebling to wretched harmony


&dead of wall’s chink lisped through

you & your tarnished places 

as to be undelivered permanently beneath your defenses

O dear last night under a full moon big & bright

some nice person decided to smash my car windows 

& steal a single Bowers & Wilkins 602 speaker (series 3 - black) a Technics record bag containing a Rotel amp 

& various cables & cds & my favourite green jacket

that rites tryst a brooding history of blood cake 

on this hateful evening in my eye marveled England 

on snake breathe,, I would rather die than become a Rose scab

into  empty space, to empty shells of insects, everlasting

underneath a bandstand dendritic cell populations 

Thank heavens for the Earl of Cardigan 

My  people,  our  people.

Our friends, our good, generous, warm,

brave, innocent, loved friends


 arising out of Wills, Trustees & co-oxcart prophecy  

to suspend the symbolic order 

in that glass hole I like to imagine 

Christopher Noland, the Last Tory 

crying into empty space, to empty shells of insects, everlasting

He wears periwinkle cufflinks, 

black pants, & a herringbone waistcoat. 

He sips at a flask of tea

His soothing air of self-command 

is not an affectation; it is borne out of a sense of duty

he counts his steps with a whisper 

‘What would David Lean do?’ 

he asks himself rhetorically. No

n..NNo answer is forthcoming from the dead

yet he is charmed, momentarily, by his interior accent.

We’ll go aerial.” 

he once wept while reading Hobbes at a boarding school of military persuasion

taught him that life is nasty, brutish, & short. Out there, he remembers, in the fallen world

people are mired in a war of all against all. 

‘There is no society . . .’ a dim voice echoes, somehow incepted into his mind….. 


…...there will always be some who suffer misfortunes 

for which they cannot provide 

& they should be helped 

by relatives, friends, voluntary groups, 

& as a last resort of course by the State 


O chief insect your name laid arsenic on Brook Street for divine violence the banner was shattered

chilblain scolding & railing against

childers under the average cost of living in the UK 

is poetic justice!  you do not know those names

Is the function or regulation essential? If it is, can it be undertaken by the private sector? If not, is it being administered efficiently & in a way most likely to have a benign effect on society as a whole rather than on those who are administering it?

Sarg Yobbo, are you desiccated on evening sick 

kissed a stump to be within a budding grove sworn

eating old el Paso & off fleshes red for reds sake alone

& hopeless in thrums curled up 

on an L shaped couch  

woe twisted silent Catching the Sergeant’s eye I. 

&I. I Have Always Worked Hard 

&at minus & willing hard your tongue

into the blood of children & threatening scoff

on the dawn before a mothball drops 

after the gas a backleg, a knobstick knotted  

admitted a neophyte of this body

special language spoken at all the meetings of these incendiaries: spine of jelly & glue

when dancing the Carmagnole & not fall back

fast into twitching sides on bending verge 

merry in ogham no escutcheon 

refracted a bough of drink 

in cassock under dominion 

awaiting a knight’s armour'd sac c

rose of petal a swoon of red faces 

&untouched heart of mosses 

lichen starch & mock Tudor coda

very little Celtic blood left over

in this appanage of carraigín 

urine inside the Rose

I am your heart-to-heart pricked on

like a Pinhead in the wasteland ramrod to your peace 

lined home or rule rubble barricade

worthy of being held in its signal of kindling flame 

or shot in the face? Lord

O bending verge O God O is my private right 

to stick on a Lilly & blow a 10 foot 

hole in London Stock Exchange 

today the British spirit surges 

10-points in share prices today

all painted bucklers today plumy chests 

porpoise oil the trading floor traffic 

& today environmental zone bolts 

the seigneur door inn powerhouse spoils the upper vestry 

raining masonry & glass on Iveco Ford Cargo 

to the table heavy with song 

O the venerable pale bent memorial shape 

of natural need, hunger can be gelignite 

or in disgust & its opposite 

is reflected the whole of history

of surcoat white silk mantle lined with red

that's yr appanage handful of little rock

to their coronet of pectins water stock 

within a lumen scratched on off 

like in your chest imagine 

resisting an ulcer of scarlet flap

tomorrow breaks in via the garden fence

& woe & woe & woe & it is late & my soul is dark

& have you seen my eyebrows drop with rubber truncheons &&&&&&&