A life in the LTD redevelopment failing
the missives what pangs capital directives
what a hissing horsehair wig undoes.
Woollard’s eulogy QC in the loop,, in the Soul Politic
at the time of 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 will of the government is
a sacred impressive multi-torch cauldron
gasped clap rounded to a flaming petal
a touch around this house as it lifts
the national cake,
to respond that life, itself is to kneel painfully on stone
and then wipe all expression from you face
so that the viewer
would read suppressed or inner pain
as it renders its child branded 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.
The draft inside a thumbtack
hearing amnesties withering in cold storage
a 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:
'our legal system is widely acknowledge to be long
on integrity and short on corruption.'
this silent mechanism, curls inwards
the letter breathe of Law forms
exacts braces of bodies,
capital directives
built in clots around skin through which the frightened
will whisper:
'i am yur, gaggle of dead beads of glass tight to night’
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 Utilitarianisms
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 & through that hole,,
are wastlings in fugue states
fingerhooked to compliance
in the plastic boxes
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
moults Woollards under your teeth
rosacea stretching.
eyes for pointing thumbscrew in tact demerit,,
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 your lumbar spine
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
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)
unrevolts alone, to a half version
having been closed
splits to reappearances
as this circulation repatriates
into two immaculate halves;
eyes estrange alone into
sundry on all fours non-rigid
an exit pales to grey fibers
attaches to goetia spells
a shuffling program executes a series of exorcisms
picked randomly from various online archives
depletes the business top line.
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,
undeadening every disaster, shapeless, is Almighty God
striking out in nonverbal clues,, 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
taken to a hidden retreat out the city wall,
a flightless young magpie tumbles to the ground,
into a bush like bower
behind a green veil of leaves,
puddles of rain shining purple,
a savage calculation performed,
to keep the family
airborne 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.
A couple of hundred miles to the west,
and three decades distant in time,
a young jackdaw
tumbles 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 mag!
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.
