Sicked what light made of bulbs
'life' is just sickled cinquefoil twist
on windpipe striplings wiggle over hangnail
redder this December morning winter bittering
the self penal charts are panoramic still
they get me in the fleshy bits
behind the ears mostly but creep more
a copal varnish covers amalgam
mouth as the sky falls steadily worse & closes up
my same said fleshy merges could heal soft
my sots if I read Britannia Unchained on Parliament Street
in beneficiated binman cloth and lac bug
from jet-age foliage lined and curse out
my real surname Little Fransham Old Hall.
For in a late semitone-self-accuse
SOS SS SO.SSSSSSSSSSSSSsss
sunder credit licensing legislation slip
a local clustering of spruce buds between fingers held
hallow the bed cursed be the night
& picked over by a vote
whose dead hole now leads in-itching
instead beg lottery rubs to queases
dad closed on two & three-liability hisses
sought again anguished & leaking or
history is black earth so by fleas
it travels on rats & sucks in dewy light
is venal, is caveat and down:
wards facing dog by a vote whose dead hole
now leads in a rolled up kind of aching
your big bald head is an obstruction to life
streaming 12 stars over my right eye
a technical ripstop Made in Italy
I’m Cocoon shaped concealed zip closure snaps
of ‘you will not terrify me, knock knock’
is a hoarding built above your head
at your expense, & O Sitex
what better to move away now
and what it means to truly be
filtered air inside of new homes built on dead bones,
with a hot dry position, you lumbering
mawkish under completed smoke
‘unpoliced and unwashed’ you crave dirt
with anti-gel bac biting over
the community preview camber
a count of candles under chin.
It’s a doorstep away from the river
& it loses its dead remember
how much a solvent tooth is
breaking over drawbridge, moat & boiling oil
bottleneck diseases from the river salt,
it’s doorstep bare footed with the rest of your woes
closed keenly a charcoallike smell,
cysteine smell a little less tough in your throat-brace
You. You the Percolator. but not the boiling. oil Not I
where the flame is to touchdry
and be belligerent and be able to think ‘freely’ outside
doorstepping waxy no almshouses
I want aches, I want concierges. burning knock knock
I want accommodating to flog whip
and beat every fine crystalline structure
I want what eyes can’t touch
a rolled up aching on other
sheared from itself where the lanyard
once was but sticks instead too often
will burn like hot tar.
In an unlocked drawer away from view
behind a picture in a home
the removal of unpaid items
physical keys, numerical codes, complex passwords,
biometric identification knock knock CCJ
strayed too far from the party’s epicentre again
having yourself beneath the blocks,
undercrofts of Forgotten People
& prey for the fowls of the air
and mim in a room full of freaks again
middle english sense a tryst overpings and for 'being sick'
is misconduct over dust suppressants Praepostor
open the door cloches glazes eyebrow to eyebrow
hush that sloops how i yearn to dance
in a room full of freaks again.
