Thursday 16 March 2023

there is no pain (draft/unfinished) (I/II)


Stephen Christopher Yaxleys old panoply of grimoires

or are we now inside venerated sprigs

over chalk breaks like Dover Straits

& listen to quarter peal of Stedman Caters 

ringing as though sounding the tocsin, 

fingered through heart thrugs to fading 

cold as daybreaks an English light

curls up my back to tap 

on the hypercondensation

the window sneaks a think-tank 

to translucent its bleeding line 

through the breached yew tree,

a coup operation; you are listening to, 

now speaks the Nationwide Festival of Light

to tiny little speckled abrasions 

beyond feeling, rosacea skin gradients of eternal bliss 

a berry for later, snaps Peers as the poverty lobby 

is galvanised to crypt it, to bury falling through the 

stairway at Bevin Court, the abolition of suffering 

moral standards crossbenchers 

your name is bleach covered in a thin bronze skin

the basement of the building 

Lenin creaks out a whispered slue 

in the central linking drum, my eyes now glue 

weeping on the gallery floors you watch from 

the rooftop canopies, its tapering & thinning

air what is to be done

with Hopton Wood Stone clipped now painted?

a naked winged angel bronze butterfly 

goes missing, Y-shaped 

torn belthers on crimson thread, Yaxleys in the area. 

again lilies mercifully 

I foul, out to the wildernesses

to crypt it, yes,

this act weakened me but, 

in a way, I have been cared for

yes, I am diminished 

but I am also emboldened: yes 

it feels like passion  

 ears bent to fagends 

it move me at night sometimes  

to be near anti-pigeon spikes 

pressing against the vulnerable white skin, 

the skin of a living boy,

the skin without blood gradually, 

a chest without air,

slackening, thin stomach thinning 

caving in eventually to my antedate

pure; strong, I am, & determined so very much 

as gradients of intelligent bliss orders curve over me

a magnitude richer like god on wort

Dave Pearce,

the Future's portal upward still,

and onward, is yours alone,

scaped so bend our Mayflower,

and steer boldly 

through the desperate winter sea, 

effective altruism phasing out suffering here tonight

under this bluelight

meld all bleating goodstrong people's blood,

that is good &not shitmud! 

& I can see from fits of burning 

rubber the ever glowing, never receding line

of fealty chokes K, thou art my life, to death, at night.

in Ebenezer Howards ancestral environs 

replaced by a motivational system 

of heritable gradients 

of bliss states of sublime well-being 

destined to become the feasibility of pains abolition

or retention into an issue of social policy

and ethical choice Yaxleys hidden,

a bin of lillies pickering 

to tilth O father, the fairest hushes 

of the wettest of lips & uttermost purpose

the World Health Organisation clangs  

under the jib of a needle 

your own hands amygdala hijacked 

mid-hue The Transmitted Deprivation Research Programme 

per chevron gules &O barry wavy 

of ten azure, that some went mad 

or in a fess, embattled the last masoned sable 

coloured in chief, sunned in splendours gold 

gone ‘social pathology’ under tower gules 

two spigs of honesty leaved slipped

a volume knob for pain & poverty, 

Yaxleys fall saltirewise 

genebreaks of intergenerational Montgomeries 

& continuities bend orchards round the wall,

of your buried head trusting pure O

that light is p-zombied.  a painless bite, swells

the CNS bloodless in shades outside common rooms,

binding a mother's love, the profoundest peace,

a Jupiter brain as pure bliss of the utilitronium launches 

the problem of suffering as tractable 

& on pin-scales logarithmic pulse keeps running

the curve bend an optimal zone,

Mister, Yaxley, What is the delta? 

anode bookmarks the flesh of pedos is glued 

on Ebenezer Howards darned light

in Garden Cities a kinder sky! of socially engineered dust 

bytes catalyst anomies its raided world elopes that or

to be mangled, burnt, in the rich meadow

docked friends, voluntary groups & 

as a last resort of course by the State 

a strike for your life! imp-

lore us; spectral Keith Josephs failing radiant 

social pathologies banded for

waving & smiling & moving to fade

& calling all hearts to emulate 

to escape,d on the misery of ambiguity 

on the misery of  32 New “Mail Room” jobs in South London

on the misery of misery under a table in the morning,

I abolish pain

below the hedonic zero

treadmill all hearts to emulate its caustic preening,

the lumbar straits 

increase the baseline  

Sir Keith's scolded Schlaraffenland 

underneath the light there is always

intervening on the ground under the pie-tree

fatlegged eating through a cloud of rice pudding; 

on the other side of the fence the Organising Group 

an empty apparition, bastedin votives spilling outwards

'familial processes' are responsible,

the gene code forfeited to rutter & madge

Generation Merit; undog your living twilight 

& soften swells scratching at the lid

to ferret out every weak spot peel away each loose fleck 

the future society is

log scales birched & falling levity 

all things big & bright

under the toscin there is no pain.