A life in the LTD redevelopment failing
what pangs capital directives
said Woollard’s a hissing horsehair wig?!??!!
QC in the loop,, in the Soul Politic
at the time of the previous circulars:
‘the Krays is stitched’ &
‘the Richardsons is stitched’
& any other case
which has been demanded for political reasons.
Is stitched. A silent creak for your protection.
The word is not only swifter than the sword, it can be surer.
into the shape unreturned
Woollard’s the will of the government
a sacred gasp clap went
around the house as it lifted
the national cake,
is beginning to respond
Everywhere
that life, itself is to kneel painfully on stone
and then wipe all expression from you face
so that the viewer: you
would read suppressed or inner pain
Reader, a horsehair renders its hissing plea:
Pull my finger,
not just any old finger
but my ring finger
my emblem,, my life
a feeling of ordnance
in the tiny pip
that idyll, that LIFE
my hand
as it touches the outer fray
failing to tiny strands
that feeling I consummate
by every pull therein remands
& I forsake.
Like hearing amnesties withering in cold storage
a handle spindle corrupts, as it coils
from vessels that form tiny little red dots
all over your skins surface barrier
a head shouts. Woollards.
& Woollards come back
blanching the floor plan
under rosacea, hissing horsehairs
its shrill adherences its graphical projections
aspects of British business and professional life
are thriving, you ssseee
'our legal system is widely acknowledge to be long
on integrity and short on corruption.'
this silent mechanism, curls inwards
the letter and breathe of Law forms
capital directives exact braces of bodies,
built in clots around skin through which the frightened
will be whispered:
'i am yur, gaggle of dead beads of glass tight to night
its shard pretending to be a kind of wall
that has a little hole in it'
to survive twisting leopards bane
devils helmet the queen of all poisons
on parricided come downs
or Benthamite Utilitarianism
a starry mark or padded path to heaven or
the local authority smarting its multisystemic therapy
carved from sessile oak making hematoma flowers
not permanent, sweet, not long lasting
& secretly through that hole,,
are wastlings in fugue states
fingerhooked on Legal Governance
again in the plastic box
accursed houses with which a body
becomes separated from another body
in order to bemutter what bloods sing to tungsten
or floats opaque when pushed remembering
against the wall, a tiny hole hissing henbane
saying over & over again
innocence is true as if
over feet &hands haloed
mutter, ing this Queen of Poisons
nights scrapped
against I am that wall.
It’s fixtures cared for
moults Woollards under your teeth rosacea
stretched. Eyes are used for pointing,
Justice (points with two fingers).
Thumbscrew in tact demerit,, i am the bits
that stick about or twist to where a building is cut along an axis
to reveal the interior structure
its order & wastes
its firm rigid delineations
its restrooms, windows & doors
cutlosses as they sunbrighten over your lumbar spine
eyelids face cascading crashing to illuminated castors
a body pumps through the footring.
The room,, inclined to the Wall inclined to the Floor
a dead relation
peels away steerable.
You are rubbing the mudguard Seat Pan
through crawling epicures a worksong,,
lightly becoming worse as the moral of métier
gets silvered reversed
inside Veolia lyric birch
an autopsy (of my dead relation)
undead revolts alone, to a half version
having been closed
splits into reappearances
as this circulation repatriates
in two immaculate halves;
my eyes estrange flails alone into the sundry
on all fours to non-rigid curses
an exit pales to grey fibers
attach them to goetia spells
a shuffling program executes a series of exorcisms
picked randomly from various online archives
depletes the business top line
SAD lamps to wellbeing-focused colours
brightpulls Woollard’s
from airthin like light in a tundra.
The sound now was rain was unceasing,,
but my companion was the most ideal Presbyterian minister,
non-judgemental, compassionate &wise
with another world's wisdom,
I have a much greater understanding of the Father's love,
undeaden every disaster, shapeless, is Almighty God
striking out in nonverbal clues even,, indiscernible
& hence frightening to the bone
routinely I smell the chemicals in the web,, of life
the finger pulled that idyll, that LIFE my hand
&again under the light of gracious,
golden, glittering gleams from above its dawns chorus
the essential feature to see the most faithful
miscreant: Abandoned as a baby
swinging from a union jack on the Cenotaph
&later on the bonnet of a Jaguar car
forming part of the royal convoy
taking the Prince of Wales and Duchess of Cornwall
to a hidden retreat out the city walls.,
A flightless young magpie tumbles to the ground,
into a bush like bower hidden behind a green veil of leaves,
behind puddles of rain shining purple,
it could be no accident that this bird is on the ground
a savage calculation may have been performed,
showing that the only way to keep the family
airborne was to jettison the runt.
The bird has stopped moving now.
It crouches down in the gutter,
shivering from dehydration &perhaps fear too.
If nature is allowed to run its course,
it’ll probably be dead before the day is out
& now I have a much greater understanding
of the origins of my pain that my hands no longer shake.
A couple of hundred miles to the west,
and three decades distant in time,
a young jackdaw
tumbled from its nest in the steeple of a village church.
Steely-grey feathers, yellow beak,
injured wing dragging along the floor.
Jackdaws &magpies share family ties.
The crow family. Carrion kin. Stitched.
Someone, perhaps the the most ideal Presbyterian minister,
stumbled across this injured young bird,
boxed it up, and took it to the home of a local woman,
an amateur animal healer.
From there, the jackdaw found its way into the hands of the man
who would go on to become my father.
The same way this magpie finds its way to me.
Now I have a much greater understanding
of the origins of my pain
by my magpie’s side,
I wonder deeply of the talk about them murdering songbirds
collapsing ecosystems,
loaded with ancient scorn from Old English mag,
its rough chatter to the alleged crimes of tearing out of eyes,
and anuses of lambs
that they even bear a spot of the devil’s blood
under their tongues
& refused to mourn for Christ.
Not my magpie!
Everyone knows the rhyme,
or a version of it:
one magpie brings sorrow;
two mirth;
three a wedding;
four a birth;
five silver, six gold;
and seven the devil, his own self alone!
Now I have a much greater understanding
of the origins of my pain.
