Thursday 16 February 2023

Ritblat Downed (darft/unfinished)


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 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 tails off 

waving two fingers at British Land, 

PLC holy-stricken Corporate Governance

Buildings are bricks and mortar, 

there to be bought & sold fleet-footed 

the drooping floors its sinking chorus of

imperium hard-ons

from silver goblet heads champagne

descaling promised blood scenting 

homes to nothing again  

like under heaven dominated by

clubbable tycoons a balance in the sorry ground 

harmless tokenism in the beginning of spring. 

Our wrecker is very, 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

rents all 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 related to 

while primarily based on the stated aims  

of TMO & Client aspirations are Hidden Homes

inside clavicles rolled in primrose 

under broiling suns Zone Oneland rainsoaked 

pieces of amenities fall out a structural spandrel 

under the windows horizontal a decorative facing

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, 

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 

Ritblat’s daughter spawn starving hysterically naked

everything is changing 18 years eyes began to startle

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 #‘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

the bitten toxins:

The most elusive of creatures

is a right-of-centre millennial 

breaking over the White Cliff of Dover, 

a Non-virtue signaller. Zero snowflake credentials. 

English Identitarian. No Surrender. 

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 the 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

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 an ultimatums graph 

as its marrows turns starry blue

yellow licking camshafts to shine a S.A.D. lamp on

 NIMBYs zonal planning 

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 

regulatory arrangements

hegemonies  with english brick, this bloodshift unnamed, 

face-to-face on retail chains privatised plazas into manja line 

coated powdered glass The Best Residential High-rise Architecture 

at the International Property Awards

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:

‘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. 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 

and 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 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 at night!’ 

Inside diminished stairs to anti-finger wrap 

traps PACE a place for no-one cilled jambhead 

the cyanosis of The Wall illegible to northerners 

Guardian readers wailing & Eddie Stobarts Class Alliance

the 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 

Hidden Homes in ginnels in ennogs in snickets

from public amenities

fleet fobs out a battleground lost

& the skies spark & die with zephyrs

as city interns burn the magic roundabout

under spruce buds made the sky fall 

between fingers picked by vote 

bluey whose dead hole now leads in-itching

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?’

A carousel hologram of a boat race appears

Logie Leggatt leads the line 

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.'

Sweet is the night-air! old panoply of grimoires

or are we now inside venerated springs

over chalk breaks like Dover Straits

& listen 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 a Michael McIntyre joke 

on a 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. 

a dodo skeleton in a Recruitment Accessory Room, 

Warfares. Bricklayers. Investors. Antecedents  

hanging from a steel pergola 

the height of the crown reduced 

by Alpha City 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 whisper 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 

the professional managerial class goes 

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' 

image macro infields 

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 morning 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

—see that there? that's an          flag that  

there that's the        flag but they’ve disguised it 

so you can’t recognise it

black and red though, isn't it! 

–yea black and red so you can’t recognise it

& 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 mum rhyme

10 nautical miles agitatrixs hurdling

cold auspices,  logical consequences 

of corporal penalties, you evade  

& drag of eyes that untolerate 

hurdles in the plenary room

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.