Monday 29 November 2021

My Other Life I (Draft)


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 


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.