Thursday 27 October 2022

Ah beautiful sky (draft/unfinished)

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