Friday 18 March 2022

Sarg Yob (edit/draft)


Mark Kennedy AKA Mark Stone, NPOIU Lynn Watson (alias), NPOIU Marco Jacobs (alias), NPOIU Jim Boyling AKA Jim Sutton, SDS Simon Wellings (alias), SDS Robert Lambert AKA Bob Robinson, SDS John Dines AKA John Barker, SDS Mark Jenner AKA Mark Cassidy, SDS Carlo Neri (alias), SDS "RC" (alias), SDS Gary R. & Abigail L. (aliases), NPOIU Rod Richardson (alias), SDS Mike Chitty AKA Mike Blake, SDS Matt Rayner (alias), SDS Jason Bishop (alias), SDS Dave Hagan/N81, SDS Roger Pearce, SDS Andy Coles AKA Andy Davey, SDS Rick Gibson (alias), SDS Christine Green, SDS Douglas Edwards (alias), SDS John Graham (alias), SDS William Paul 'Bill' Lewis, SDS Alex Sloan (alias), SDS John Clinton (alias), SDS Bob Stubbs (alias), SDS Dick Epps (alias), SDS Michael Scott (alias), SDS Dave Robertson (alias), SDS HN348 / 'Sandra', SDS Dave Jones (alias), SDS / NPOIU James Straven / Kevin Crossland (aliases), SDS Rob Harrison (alias), SDS Jim/Jimmy Pickford (alias), SDS Peter Francis AKA Peter Daley or Pete Black, SDS Vincent Harvey, SDS


To be the common voucher for the character of all the spies & informers in the employ of government from agitated districts, & not only from justice, but from a master of justices, sober, loyal, attached to the constitution, & ready to uphold it by any means necessary are always sacrifices, legislation & British Standards 



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, laid doggo

a hurt leg trembling wild  

then your own body

control 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 

you unmoved clinking ha'porth 

made your mouth to not smiling 

speak through stolen life

a name of deceased child 

Sarg Yobbo, O hole-strickened hook reaped 

tight my own itch 

wraith a spiral flicker against my face twice

the hole of this wall! O

I speak your mouths exit a bewitched helve 

sunk a knuckle to sunder of thorn by name 

by night you have taken this poor duffer

stuffed mother & child on venal breads made nothing 

you have put in the cub once

got up the spout twice, stick knocked thricely 

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

to assume squatters' rights over 

for the next four years

under evensong a life misspelt 

a life mislaid & love of you 

Sarg Yobbo, ,

entwined code weaving 

out a spy gash

infiltrate & debase of each wastlings 

now forsworn to be

a forged life sundered 

in one's own' death certificate-- 


  • Frederick Forsyth’s novel 'The Day of the Jackal' explains 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 (under 1 years old) or people aged over 16

with my hand set down 

Mr Yobbo, 

how many are in your creation & unreceived 

this broken lamp emails trails has expired 

delivery failed permanently

& so to blood caught 

I give curses re-emerged as 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

to be made into a blackjack or baton upon this cosh

in reverse of you 

with a mouth of rolled 

& folded papers

form an improvised weapon of beermats, 

horse brasses, polo mints, shoelaces 

& boots squashed into a cosh

a stealth weapon 

Sargin to create a handle haft

& rounded head at the fold 

there a promise pass'd speak long-lost

shy bolted shilled of memory & raked with holes

a secret unit clawed to grapnel nail

of a boy is dead is the whole data,,, irrational ,pellet, 

&I in this foisted bloodrot hail upon,

let sorrow say this undid my name tangle

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

Yobbo spawn 

boy to dog

a foul for what I speak

Do you remember when you fingered my lifehole!

made of me strange & want nothing 

formless of touch 

so sighs & tears cover 

a prodding 

haloed & shuddered 

to hatred if it does not invert suck

into love through piercing laughter

& what chokes are masks intended 

as the slanting edge of ‘morrow gone to give curses

for 36 yobbos of philharmonic pitch

sang out, 

kiss my mouth a boy inverted spells yob

faithed to unitched in Margaret Thatcher’s grain

bled to sink a knuckle of eviled blame

an oath of twisted faces 

& each year underworking light



under a full moon big & bright

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…..