Saturday 11 February 2023

Rain was unceasing II (4K) (draft/unfinished)


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.