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Ah beautiful sky,
this maudlin anglo-saxon model resilient finances
branches of our curious mock-antique
not places to live, not places
unless you’re either lucky or a venture capitalist
and only I believe it now
as rafts of completely proletarian
granulated life discolours into my cacodylic eye
‘class distinctions in England
have always been the matter
for higher feeling than national honour,
the matter of feverish but very private debate.’
there are perks in chains of lead
Ah beautiful sky,
around flight can you feel it
in blazing colour and shriek out
from amplifiers this circus themed city
& its vintner commodes
balloon-filled red carpets my face
up to tendered stars
or physical keys or complex passwords,
your spine pin-drudges
seizes your heart as it raises
every whispered word
in the Atos decision was an accelerating factor
in inorganic solids
Ah beautiful sky,
your tongue’s swollen membrane
this gangway job pissed town is yours
in a sports bag in the clubs of Mayfair,
in the officers messes of Sandhurst
in Chelsea Barracks sunlit marigold
beds insurrection you say they are easy targets
as it crannies out over London’s croustade
it’s scalding impossible light so what
its a jubilant way into this sibilant city
like a groove in the left hand side
of an access door, open
on PFI’s scored out funworld huzzah
Ah beautiful sky,
having yourself beneath the blocks,
or mim in a room its undercrofts
the supremacy of pure feeling
hushes in the eyelets of Sitex
1997 uncrossable line
knotted the azure main blowing
as horoscopes for every whispered word
spine as a pin-drudges
the lowest remuneration that employers
can legally pay are footfalls away and the intestines
itch a small fraction of this code
Ah beautiful sky,
breaks as the cities high emotional beta
portfolios flyover absent faces
from midnights to mound militating
fuck all the way round it goes poesie
stiffs in starflowered walls stuck
class collaborating in fern trees again
I see all your glistening faces
the Home Counties are your
equinox et mon droit on all the earth
they say the British people voted, they voted
l'accumulateur de mon coeur
they voted to be free quarterly
Ah beautiful sky,
it is Platonic idea and the organisation
of English society has never been,
a system of horizontal strata but
a shard of glass
on cloud bilges over capital panorama
buried on top of a hill
the grave is a secret marked with a sprig of acacia
you emerge in propria persona
as the guide to formal parterres
herbaceous borders and flowering shrubs
how to undarken light
in a girdle of starres
Ah beautiful sky,
all the violent deeds glow
under liquid Sir Cop & Cross party
QC F.K.A Hungry Q.C a throng of orderlies
and the opposition dies in broken sleep
forms mental images of things
they wish to remember the vanguard
broken glass tremors
carving up the Ossulton Estate
function room breaks
the helix structure crick shaped,
U turn it into flats
275 tonnes of Westmorland Green slate
painted blood red
Ah beautiful sky,
this is called class struggle
agitatrix sometimes you
think it disappears in big squares in
possession of trees covered in flags
outside Georgian terraces but
again and again and again
it returns like a cyclical October
or Kent scum throwing broken
bricks into the drums of washing
machines in the middle of marshland
every 100 milliliters of blood
is ziggurat sepsis to crawling in mud
Ah beautiful sky,
with sedition a weak voice breaks
on Channel 4’s sub-culture of poverty
a broken peril loam as it guzzles
precious and horizontal
do I remember English society
in macadamed light
the centre for social justice
where you find
symptoms your symptoms
made it ours, spelling out the vapour trails
kisses fuming you, spectre,
and bite on the chin
Ah beautiful sky,
whisperless prannets cranked glazing calcined
DREAMLAND the soft strip
with scrim & TC’s
gathered outside municipal bins
its blood ascension under the largest
surviving gate, where am I? speaking therapy
for toddlers walk into walls
a ‘subliminal menace’,
to harness energies of
an english brick of excrement
that would shine out all the more brightly
about them, you, spectre,
Ah beautiful sky,
this not-dying in name and arms,
that have borne and changed
no less than five times
raging in the morning air desperate
is asbestos holding it aloft to
Stephen Christopher Yaxleys
old panoply of grimoires
or are we now inside venerated springs
over chalk breaks like Dover Straits
& listen to quarter peal
of Stedman Caters ringing
as though sounding the tocsin
Ah beautiful sky,
you spectre, you believe it, they despise you
spend their time sneering
at the way you talk the way you
scorched stars yesterday
like a furl into a fakeless slash
slavering with wilful want
& other failures accoutrements
thank you inorganic solids
made to see out of
and be forced mourn here
each day the Tudor Rose
is 99p cost-cutting
from the gad crack’d
Ah beautiful sky,
an accelerating factor sweet and gentle
he didn't deserve to die
he wasn't harming anyone
ate voices in faint need
as if you would give him
speaking therapy a dry code of written warrens
and broken throttles keenly
& screen out reiterated burning to
increasingly punitive, systems mine
& O do you?
become sonorous and
i am nothing must be everything
