Ah beautiful sky,
this maudlin anglo-saxon model
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
has always been a matter
of 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 inorganic solids
Ah beautiful sky,
your tongues swollen membrane
this gangway job pissed town is yours
in a sports bag in the clubs of Mayfair,
in Officers messes of Sandhurst
in Chelsea Barracks sunlit marigold
beds insurrection you say they are easy targets
and do nothing under London’s croustade
it’s scalding impossible light so what
its a jubilant way into this sibilant city
roams like a groove in the left hand side
of an access door, open
on PFI’s scored out funworld breaks
Ah beautiful sky,
to having yourself beneath the blocks,
or mim in a room its undercrofts
the supremacy of pure feeling
hushes in eyelets of Sitex
1997 an uncrossable line binds
knotted the azure main blowing
horoscopes for every whispered word
the lowest remuneration that employers
can legally pay is good and fair
and my intestines itch
a small fraction of this code
Ah beautiful sky,
you eat it as the cities high emotional beta
portfolios flyover faces
from midnights to mound militating
all the way round it goes
poesie stiffs starflowered walls
class collaborating fern trees
all your glistening faces
the Home Counties make your equinox
et mon droit the British people voted,
they voted l'accumulateur de mon coeur
it is Platonic idea
and its organisation
Ah beautiful sky,
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 flowering shrubs
how to undarken light
in a girdle of starres my skin in trickle ip
all the violent deeds glow
under liquid Sir Cop & Cross party
Ah beautiful sky,
QC F.K.A Hungry
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,
agitatrix class struggle
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 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 loans as it guzzles
precious and horizontal
do I remember English society
in macadamed light
the centre for social justice
somewhere burning where you find
symptoms your symptoms
made it ours, spelling out the vapour trails
kissing fumes you, spectre,
bite on the chain there are perks
Ah beautiful sky,
whisperless 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 menaced idea
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
asbestos holding it aloft
to Stephen Christopher Yaxleys
old panoply of grimoires
over chalk breaks like Dover Straits
& listen to quarter peal
of Stedman Caters ring
as though sounding the tocsin
Ah beautiful sky,
an accelerating factor sweet and gentle
he didn't deserve to die,, he wasn't harming anyone
scorched stars yesterday
a furl into a fakeless slash
ate voices in faint need
as if you would give him
speaking therapy a dry code of written warrens
and broken throttles keenly
& screening out reiterated burning to
increasingly punitive systems
& O do you? become sonorous
i am nothing must be everything gad crack’d
