All the forms & images
in the world can be revoked
remembering your childhood
Sir James Ritblat (reticulated),, your mothers disappearance
near a Hertfordshire airfield
10 nautical miles John agitatrixs
hurdling a 7 per cent annual cut
10 nautical mothers 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 leaks out.
“I’m much happier going to sleep with a smile on my face. But.. ”
“It isn’t the same.
Back then we had Tiny…we shared
the Cots in clubbing faith”
An adviser's silky smooth voice tails off
waving two fingers at British Land,
PLC holy-stricken Corporate Governance
Buildings are bricks and mortar,
to be bought & sold
fleet-footed the drooping floors
a sinking chorus of imperium hard-ons
from silver goblet heads champagne descales
promised blood homes to nothing again
like under heaven dominated by
clubbable tycoons a balance in the sorry grounded
harmless tokenism,, the beginning of spring.
With Tiny gone to dust, our wrecker is very busy,
dinner speeches parterres aflame
up with the Cupronickel Ponte Giardino
& down with our enemies
to Get Living or be forbade
undermanic thieves bind dewy bade
rents the brightest culled darkly
Sir Michael Caines in ‘sinkhole estates’
riven to the spot of a luminous body
silicone & polyol resin spots
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 meth-drinking weirdos’
& so clearly the tariff of
good faith will be deferred
to the imaginary children of the future.
Everybody has tears in their eyes
but does not mind them
probably does not even know
they are there.
& by guises a number of design objectives
striate to the stated aims the whole earth
of TMO & Client aspirations are Hidden Homes
inside clavicles rolled in primrose, inside
under broiling suns Zone Oneland rainsoaked
pieces of amenities fall out; a structural spandrel
under the windows horizontal, a decorative facing
hill with car park lights, the aluminum balconies
stapled fields of dreams industrial units
a feeling on cantilevered platforms
to view something like a glass atria
inside Big Yellow Self-Storage
big sheds plastic-clad buildings,
a Rubik’s Cube steel column with twinkling lights
skylines that stay the same that stay true
of neon-lit pipes Ritblat’s daughter spawns
starving hysterically
everything is changing 18 years eyes begin to startle
like Terence Stamp in Teorema
eyes happy in pose like light bulbs draped through the grounds
of the party live camels, monkeys, Vintner commodes
FTSE100 a tent with a gold sign beaming 1#‘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
rendered a Michael McIntyre
on hand to provide the jokes
like bitten toxins:
The most elusive of creatures
is a right-of-centre millennial
breaking over the White Cliffs of Dover,
a Non-virtue signaller. With zero snowflake credentials.
An English Identitarian.
No Surrender. God saves.
Hysterically naked everything is changing
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 a likewise disembodied voice of Sir Michael Caine
sub-Pendereckian clicks & drones slither out from above me
“the people” aren’t even real; weaponised figments
in forgotten places spelling out vapour trails
there are perks in chains of lead you can feel it.
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 & underground swimming pools
& was always an ultimatums graph
as its marrows turns blue starry red shift
yellows licking camshafts to shine on S.A.D. lamps
zonal planning featureless trees are broken,
establishes Nue Ground
'at the heart of what we do'
a life, strategic planning
on all opposing broken pledges
down One Elephant regulatory arrangements
hegemonies with olde english brick,
this bloodshift unnamed,
face-to-face on retail chains privatised plazas
into a manja line coated powdered glass
The Best Residential High-rise Architecture
at the International Property Awards, enclaved
I feel a certain pang inside my chest
see a hole as big
as tenpence in the glass.
Names emerge. And the pain grows specifically apart ,
localised , around the heart,
or the stomach, or the lungs
kettering a sky lounge, 45th floor
Sir Michael Caine's voice:
'A clap went around the anvils of my tears. The country I love
is bleeding to death. Back in my day, everyone was paid in
golden sovereigns, would sleep well at night no one was ill or died
the weather was perfect & you could get 200 pints of bitter
for a quid in a bushel, the English National Dance
was still Boomps a Daisy. In summer, all the streams were drained
& filled with flowers!& Daisies, & oh our boys never left home
they worked hard & made do with nothing.'
Inside diminished stairs to anti-finger pay bench
to trap PACE, codes of practice
a place for no-one cilled jambhead
the cyanosis a wall illegible to northerners
& Eddie Stobarts Class Alliance
famed ginger group, The League of Empire Loyalists
as it dissolved or merged with Rheinzink hollowed blood
voiding 72 habitable floors
YouGov poll finding eight out of ten people agreed
to a depressed apex in the head
Hidden Homes in ginnels in ennogs in snickets
from public amenities fobs out a battleground lost
& the skies spark & die with zephyrs
as city interns burn the magic roundabout twice
under spruce buds made Skyfall
between fingers picked by vote
bluey whose dead hole now leads in-itching 16 year olds
flaked white skin to prevent roosting
flashes of British Gypsum
cuts teethwet brogues to the British Standard
Ritbalt,, the empty shore swells mudflats,
Marx on a beach;
'the weather here is partly good and partly bad,
with the latter tending to predominate'.
During an interspace of silence
I interrupted the revolutionist and philosopher
with these fateful words:
‘What is a Stephen Christopher Yaxley?’
As faited carousel hologram of a boat race appears
Logie Leggatt leads the line headbanging
all foppish fair haired boys
Ahoy in oak quad sculls, singing:
There is a Ship we understand,
now riding in the River,
'Tis newly come from Lubberland,
the like I think was never:
You that a Lazy life do love,
i'de have you now go over,
They say the Land is not above
two thousand Leagues from Dover.
The Rivers run with Claret fine,
the Brooks with rich Canary,
The Ponds with other sorts of Wine,
to make your hearts full merry:
Nay, more then this, you may behold
the Fountains flows with Brandy,
The Rocks are right Refined Gold,
the Hills are Sugar-Candy
After a moment looking out
at the roaring sea and the multitude on the beach,
the great man replied,
in a deep and solemn tone,
with the single word: ‘Struggle.'
A single sweet word as the night-air brisked
old panoply of grimoires
chalk breaks like Dover Straits
to quarter peal of Stedman Caters
ringing as though sounding the toscin
a small piece of kebab meat
in my Stephen Christopher Yaxleys
bright girdle furled under diadem floodlights
lies outside the White cliffs & you fix it
in fens my trackiebums are perks in chains of lead
around flight can you feel it,
a Michael McIntyre joke
on darkling plain:
An English Identitarian.
With Zero snowflake credentials.
Non-virtue signaller.
Right-of-centre millennial breaks over
That most elusive of creatures.
No Surrender.
Like a dodo skeleton in a Recruitment Welfare Room,
Bricklayers. Investors. Antecedents. Warfares.
hanging from a steel pergola
the height of a crown reduced
by Alpha City International its corraled networks
freezing a six-rink grass bowling green
to a virtued mansard roof,
shiny trespa shards sink in
the spithaw berries glued
to rags with cultivar traits
narrowed keyhole credentials whispering pink slips
wrungtrotted on nopay
piss under no boss in Jack of Plate toxing bed,
or stiffen to chartered hails
eat Chartwells Free School Meals
milligram by milligram
to heaven where the social pathology
of a greasy pole gets delivered time-sensitive
working papers filled in the mouths of
transmitted deprivation its austerity five-pointed fingerdust
'we only need to be lucky once'
a profound caesura
in my heart came too late
mimics the mires unchanging
personnel of this class
war sicked to be lucky always
from the cutting instrument
the quiet part of PAYE
& there are perks in chains of lead
around flight you can feel it
chainmailed in the mornings emulsifying under sunglass
to kiss a curve of melting plastics, cups
right where you use to live
you know this by ushers in crisis our starbursts
reflect non-permanent futures
crowned tapered pilasters
crony parvenu crawls out of each
in melamine Yellow plaintive 5 year chembinge
company curcaries
for every whispered word a body lies
in a boules pitch in cages in stables
in tennis courts and underground swimming pools
sky gardens, viewing platforms the Public London Charter
for the users, owners and managers of public spaces
debug my linked mangle,
light hoisted & by tackling the root ,,the user
crashes in its missing features,
(land ownership) & slips into cipher docs (private rent)
like a gateway built into a program sealed
the city wall is hell, as if in a mould; in steel mullions
blooded pails chortle on crosswinds
through a dull thud of a narwhal tusk
the lid or stopper gulf turns grey-silver
depopulated centres enterprise children
amygdala hijacked,, a raging quiverend?
& God is here on little screens above the concourse,
Sky News Broadcasts a perpetual loop of Dark Justice
sub-Pendereckian clicks & drones
a slither out under eries from terror,
from the horrible little white hankies
Bookmarks pickering on a bin of lilies
monoglot frosting violent silhouettes
on Tottenham Court Road
& then arachinards images culled from silver
poisoned breath a white man turns blue
a great British reboot
a great British patch job
steps out massing scraps
I had turned back a waving gaggle
a necklace of glass beads down
as it burrows a pros & cons
to see the freezing of my blood
closer to sunlight headbangers solidifying architecture
against a soft rein of interns and the currents of light
under mastice verdant solution
Cut out in the sky.
Office blood in enfilade black steel laws.
Resident profiles. Aperfect sprangle in braced glass.
We have everything to live for
walkway stretches its sick building syndrome.
The terms@conditions break skived
to petaling into jagged stripes
in Metropolitan Landscrapes
pulls away through my drearied heart
& from the skies to Mountain View HQ
undersong petaling near a Hertfordshire airfield
closer to sunlight that was never built
but dug from hills there is no fog
but pruding security solutions
loud as glass
over the furrowed glebe
silent & frozen out a future data centre
wire needle clanks
past the black fence
lies a green expanse
a putative building site barcoded façades
a habitat, everything is here under
Section 106 Agreement
its manacle slithers always to that or die,
& it is always that or die
O, softest pickering my feeling
Kippers internecine
anti-federalist league in the Spring groans
of Pig Alley with its narrow passageways
the lark singing near Albion Gardens
hornwracked the moss animals bryozoan,
stone jetties stretch out to the North Sea
yellowish the night
lily pink later American reds
forgotten the Augusta Steps on East Cliff,
to gnarled roots & tider boards
where the grain barge headed for Hudson's mill,
years ago everything is 5 minutes 41 seconds faster
on Jacob's ladder the urine deflectors marshal you down
where you find in macadamed light
an interspace of silenced tone,
with the single word:'Struggle.'
international class hotel: the
Granville, overlooking the sea
a Trans-Europa ferry registered as My Lucky Star
is sold for scrap, in the morning outside
Milton Pipes go to The Saxon Shore Way
formerly Church Marshes Country Park,
formerly a disused landfill site , as light from this
brash wave trails over their dowries, Kippers
a moulding head behind a St. George flag
manacle slithered
always a dull thud of a narwhal tusk. Ritblat.
Sir James, you are now part of the Post-Boom years
on a hill near a farm in Wimpstone, Warwickshire.
In Teletubbyland, artificial hillocks
flooded with blood to make a coin tower
made up of six billion penny pieces
is starred out in a tiara,
on the head of this fabulous city
A fist closes
to work
esprit de corps the rewards system tangles up
inside a head out in nonverbal cues
teeth which hang-up in gurgles
nerve colonnades turn to prigs
break off or within the dull winds
a feeling might unpin there
in the mid-distance on small infill sites.
be said and the moon metal, silvered
reversed through glen perishing eyelashes
glass dewdrop fabrics in defiance to stars,
a state of Blessedness commensurate,,
a breakout room the future no public consultations
break off or within the dull winds
a feeling might unpin there
in the mid-distance on small infill sites
turn to prigs Ritblat, your families
evertide inside Olympic Village dragged there
kitchenless Lordship harnessed
ill of them dragged the eyes that tolerate
the cruelest murky bowl-like silhouette,
a single curved petal made of shining hammered copper
ambuscade the Alpha Plus Group, its changelings
bluenosing the dower hand
its grundy pedant killjoy stuffed shirts
play British Virgin Island, toby jugged
ranine dinner parties
a sprawling pinch lurking in limited companies
the cerebrum a doctrine colt wired together
in a closet of blondish tuff against a wall
the quietest regicide minims a bower
its manacle slithered always to that or die,
Ritblats court boots rack over
furking outside calx in pious memory, you twitch
an Adelphi Genetics Forum
renamed wallbang this scythe
into the inner of planned breeding the swill airline,
hitting the door on your Cotswolds estate after
a dying whirligig appears to clamber for: a desideratum
It’s no use, humming the body of the condemned
a ligament flamed headache-thorn
the eyries of you and a sprawling tax dispute
with HMRC culls slows to mere lapse
sapping thin brass over your bodies bilking
unhearable canneries over your grandchildren heads
burnt with sulphur, and on those places
where thoughts will be torn away
turnt to pain pressed amongst mumming rhyme
10 nautical miles agitatrixs hurdling
cold auspices, logical consequences
of corporal penalties, you evade
& drag the untolerate in the plenary room
under our said stolen madrigals
brigged like blockades
you love what you do remembering the floors
have absolutely no cracks at all
but a sinkhole increases daily
the touching pass under mercury vapour light
its greenish white the Central Management Office
you go in atm’s come out
like arachinards from silver poisoned breath
corrupting vulnerable, white skin
skin without blood gradually, chest without air,
slack thin stomach, caving in
the mad, frothing Corbynosphere
through dimming glass.
A television-screen gone stuck
the pain grows specific, localised,
somewhere around the heart,
or the stomach, or lungs
the TV again, louder this time.
A commercial for the Army: good pay,
quick promotion, see the world. Emphatic.
Persuasive melodical. Almost triumphant.
Reassuring. Finger rubbing skin as a retreat
& as if to hash for life in a welfare room
somewhere near or close to groundsheet
the care password is StampCall*
remembering the floors
have absolutely no cracks
Ritblats the scattergraphs
biff weaning into a stranded call
to ask: What are you glued to today?
that was mine in breath
struck your sad dead jingo rat
where lugfails v-shaped hymn comes back,
a narwhal tusk, a roof garden, a café,
a ‘breakout room’ the future,
closes six billion
penny pieces to steel gavel
the largest in the world, apparently.
