O your Colonel,, as a father indemnified the door,
on Salisbury plains stamping to an interspace
of whispers that you are voiceless, again.
Inside Praepostor Business Class
a brig that sensation masts
another's Earldom, ancestries:
'I do not want to say any more
thank you very much'
Believe again, or sweat, or blood: nothing inside
the amp of shredded use values.
All the forms & images
in the world can be revoked
remembering your childhood
A carousel hologram of a boat race appears
foppish fair haired boys in oak quad sculls, singing:
‘What is a Stephen Christopher Yaxley?’
Logie Leggatt leads the line chalks over thinly
whose clear body was so pure, & mine
after a moment looking out at the roaring sea,
you ask what lies outside the White cliffs?
to a single reply;
daemons
that night-air claps & brisk’d my under cheek
the heraldic bleed, Blue Boys swilling on the beach
Cooee! cooee! A boat as good as brains!
that one man was much like another on this vast floating army cum laude.
There are perks in chains of lead.
Enterprise of England, our armada
in a ladened wraith, a dodo skeleton in the morning you lay down
in the Recruitment Welfare Room,
crawl space of its office carpet broadloomed,, a June morning together. It is dark now along the rim
& always now dark
Bricklayers. Investors. Antecedents. Warfares.
O hanging from a steel pergola, a yawning feeling
the working-catharsis it hiccups
& collapses, glitches of sweat, or blood: to nothing.
Coat of arms,
What will you do if agency workers cross the picket line?
Start again.
What lies outside the White cliffs?
a fallen head, a white corral of freezing networks
a six-rink grass bowling green
glued to a mansard roof
under no boss in Jack of Plate toxing bed,
I, stiffen in chartered hails interned
Chartwells Free School Meals
milligram by milligram
Good over Evil,
Life over Death
depopulated centres enterprise children,
& God is here on little screens
above the concourse Sky News Broadcasts
a perpetual loop of Dark Justice & you
bleed in a line or switch in disguise
& what army? in the morning emulsifying
under sunglass, a beating heart to a raging quiver?
Good over Evil,
Life over Death
starbursts reflect non-permanent futures
a crown of tapered pilastersits crony parvenu crawls out of each
in melamine Yellow plaintive 5 year chembinge
the city wall is hell, as if in a mould;
where the lid or stopper turns grey-silver
like chainlinked chrome
five stages of grief
the multitude on the beach
grows to taking back by the lonely song,,
the unnameable bodies
hectares splinters memories of home
a starless sky
of my Yaxleys old panoply of grimoires
or now in venerated sprigs
over chalk breaks like Dover Straits
& listen to the quarter peal
of Stedman Caters ringing as though
sounding the tocsin on heart thrugs to fading
an English light curls up my back
to tap on the hypercondensation,,
the window sneaks a think-tank
translucent yew tree,
a coup operation; the Nationwide Festival of Light 1971
a berry for later, snaps Peers
as the poverty lobby is galvanised
gradients of eternal bliss to crypt it,
to bury falling through the stairway at Bevin Court,
at the basement of the building
a Vladamir creaks out, a whispered slue
your name is bleach, moral standards the abolition of suffering
in the central linking drum, my eyes now glue
weeping on the gallery floors,, you watch from the rooftop canopy,
a tapering & thinning air,
what is to be done with Hopton Wood Stone,
clipped now painted?
move at night near anti-pigeon spikes
pressing up against the vulnerable white skin,
the skin of a living boy, the skin without blood gradually,
a chest without air, a slackening thin stomach thinning
to an antedate gradients of intelligent
bliss orders gone missing,
Yaxleys in the area.
Lilies mercifully I foul, out to the wilderness pickering
on crimson thread 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,
feels like a passion coming on its magnitude richer
like god on wort & is yours alone
so bend our Mayflower & steer boldly
through the desperate winter sea, return to us
that aching feeling, unresolved to be itself alone
a crushing, altruism phasing out suffering here tonight
under this bluelight meld all bleating strong people's blood,
that is good ¬ shitmud! & I can see from fits of burning
rubber ever glowing, never receding line of fealty choke,, s
of sublime well-being destined to be
Yaxleys hidden pickering to tilth.
O your Colonel,, as a father,
the fairest hushes of the wettest lips
& uttermost purpose the clangs under the jib of a needle
your own hands turn blue mid-hue
The Transmitted Deprivation Research Programme of intergenerational Montgomeries glinting
the social market economy rip the working class
a painless bite, a mother's love, the profoundest peace,
a Jupiter brain managed rundown launches on pin-scales
& logarithmic pulses a single namesake, the State,
a strike for your life! imp-
lore us; spectral Keith Josephs failing radiantly
abolish pain below the hedonic zero
& make all hearts to emulate its caustic preening,
the lumbar straits
the baseline Sir Keith's scolded Schlaraffenland
underneath the light there is always
intervening on the ground the pie-tree
fatlegged eating through a cloud of rice pudding;
on the other side of the fence an empty apparition,
basted in votives the gene code 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 & falling levity all things big & bright.
Moritz Erhardt, begins with an itch
anticonvulse &the Sun’s Sun,
suffer the opposite
out a block of flats near Cambridge Heath,
suffer the opposite, in the midst of the rising
from a streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep
quadrilateral, a square of clemency the Gray code.
A psychoanalyst & a life coach walk into a room.
an intern washes, puts on a fresh shirt & re-emerges
blinking in the dawning light. Start again
to expect pain sprawled across the shower floor,
the water still running. Hearts of Oak.
decomposing are members of the Orthodox Conservatives,
the Bow Group or Turning Point Uk,
is waiting for nothing but leaks out in the middle
of the meeting table;
Gekko Grundgesetz
to climb without oxygen to climb without eyes unblinking
behind black oval
‘Economic Possibilities for Our Grandchildren’ read from a stapled balcony overlooking a chill wind blowing off the Elbe
karoshi Quisling deals at the Faust-Gymnasium
half empty bodies, seen in the movies’ seen in & through
that I should be yours, & obediently
against the merry go round
coloured with cuts, that I was
your drowned trend, a paling sweet face
begins with an itch, correct speech
correct Yaxleys & not die.
Naivety & vulnerability & not die. & paedo dearest
correct kept patriot cut to poor feeling pickering over white fathers
where the light is always left on
Gestatten: Elite
The morning after the Korova Bar meeting,
a complementary perspective collapses
monotherapy hierarchies premium fridays dark Sites,
a gentle wind moves uninjuring your arms & legs
a sweet tingling feeling
turns your skin red under ‘Resilience Week’
confines at the bottom inexplicably meal provision fitness amenities
alphahoods crimp the best & brightest karoshi in a snare.
