Wednesday 18 January 2023

The country I love is bleeding to death! (draft/unfinished)


All the forms & images 

in the world can be revoked

remembering your childhood

 Sir James Ritblat,, your mothers disappearance 

near a Hertfordshire airfield 

agitatrixs hurdling a 7 per cent annual cut 

to the laxey billfroth with long memories 

and then there were none but fathers 

decimals lie in bed late at night watching old comedies 

such as Only Fools and Horses, 

Porridge and Carry On films. 

“That’s my humour,” Senior Ritblat blurts. 

“I’m much happier going to sleep with a smile on my face.” 

“It isn’t the same. 

Back then we had Tiny…”

The adviser's silky smooth voice tailed off 

waves two fingers at British Land, PLC holy-stricken 

corporate governance

Buildings are bricks and mortar, 

there to be bought and sold fleet-footed 

the drooping floors its sinking chorus of

drinking champagne from silver goblets, heads

scenting blood, descaling promised 

homes to nothing again  

like under heaven dominated by

clubbable tycoons

on balance in the sorry ground 

wasted tokenism

our wrecker is very, very busy, 

dinner speeches 

parterres aflame so much we have to seek 

 to put the community at the heart of the process 

and are continuing to engage proactively

in consultation with the local peoples 

and the whole themepark trembling 

to get living or be forbade 

manic thieves bind dewy

rents all the brightest culled darkly 

Sir Michael Caines in ‘sinkhole estates’

riven to the spot 

a luminous body of 

silicone & polyol resin

turned by currents of light 

a neurotically protected citadel 

of the undead

‘it takes a man in a tweed suit 

5 and half seconds to fall from the 

top of Big Ben to the ground 

 in the area I once called home

frequented by meths-drinking weirdos’

& so clearly the tariff of 

good faith will be deferred

to the imaginary children of the future, 

sometime later all rolled in primrose 

under broiling suns Zone Oneland rainsoaked 

pieces of amenities fall out 

one panel type a structural spandrel 

under the windows 

laid horizontal a decorative facing

no local governments, no aesthetics no democracy 

twelve roads at once

you’re dead pinched and minuscule 

a hill with car park lights the aluminum balconies 

stapled fields of dreams

 industrial units 

a hill the feeling on cantilevered platforms 

to view something like a glass atria 

inside Big Yellow Self-Storage 

big sheds plastic-clad buildings 

shaped like a Rubik’s Cube a steel column with twinkling lights 

that can be controlled by text message 

skylines that stay the same dozens of pipes neon-lit 

and topped by flares 

the medium of inculcation 

the feeling of slues of 

Ritblat’s daughter spawn 

everything is changing 18 years 

 my eyes began to startle

happy in pose 

light bulbs draped through the grounds 

of the party 

live camels, monkeys, Vintner commodes FTSE100 

a tent with a gold sign beaming ‘Ritblat Family Circus’

butlers to cater for every whim like beating frogs to death 

in the midsummer evenings

 remembering the feeling 

on that river the view was undying

under the elder tree

a tendered Michael McIntyre on hand to provide jokes:

That most elusive of creatures. 

A right-of-centre millennial breaks over 

a Non-virtue signaller. 

Zero snowflake credentials. 

English Identitarian.

I crash into a pile of roasted scallops, white port, garlic 

a bouquet of variegated tulips

grasped by an enormous hand jutting from a pedestal speaks

by radio to the likewise disembodied voice of Sir Michael Caine

sub-Pendereckian clicks and drones come from above me

“the people” aren’t even real; 

they’re weaponized figments

in forgotten places spelling out vapour trails 

spectre there are perks in chains of lead

no alternative 

under hannibal house 

no alternative 

under tempest 

no alternative 

under napping fabrics

for every whispered word a body lies

in a boules pitch in fruit cages in stables

in tennis courts and underground swimming pools

& was always in 

ultimatums graph as it marrows to starry blue

with camshafts to shine a S.A.D. lamp on

 I Cry When I Laugh it is that 

or NIMBYs zonal planning hegemonies

drawn out under zoning 

or regulatory arrangements

featureless trees are broken,

establishes Nue Ground 

at the heart of what we do

a life, strategic planning 

all opposing broken pledges 

down One the Elephant 

with english brick, this bloodshift unnamed, 

face-to-face on retail chains 

and privatised plazas into manja line 

coated with powdered glass 

Best Residential High-rise Architecture 

at the 2016 International Property Awards

I feel a certain pang inside my chest

 see  a  hole  as  big

as  tenpence  m  the  glass.

Names  emerge.   And the  pain  grows  spec­ific , 

 localised ,  somewhere  around the  heart,

or the  stomach,  or the  lungs

kettering a sky lounge, 45th floor

with a bar and kitchen co-working space

accessible to residents only

Sir Michael Caine's voice:

‘the sun also rises as an act of habit

                 or estimating worth during an interspace 

of habit estimating better times 

when the flames spread radially 

around petals and all were alight, 

stems rose slowly from the gaping 

floorboards peeling upright  

with a single massive flame 

a sacred gasping light 

clap went around the anvils of my tears, 

The country I love is bleeding to death.’


His voice croaked oncemore:

‘Look, look everyone was paid in golden sovereigns 

would sleep well at night 

no one was ill or died 

the weather was perfect 

and you could get 200 pints of bitter

for a quid in a bushel the English National Dance 

was still Boomps a Daisy, the stream was

temporarily drained and filled with flowers! oh

 & our boys never left home 

they worked hard and made do with nothing 

Sixtus Dominic Boniface would hold the annual coconuts shy

we would all be burning the European Maritime Safety Agency manifesto.

The country I love is bleeding to death!’