Enemy-of-the-State (Yaxley 3) (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)

 

The 6am nights hailing out your exit

blown rarities,, a rogue wind detaches ,

a grey imposter mending 

England’s heroes in pseudocommando 

with a leakage at the Western Jet Foil site 

there is more ash now

surrounding incendiary devices

circles to patch all over the forecourt

the heads bow in solemn silence 

a message to the UK government.

--The Gangs in Telford, if you come for our children 

we will come for you, 

if I can’t have my freedom 

than I choose death 

& here stands the effigy 

 of our noblest soldiers, a forcible & eloquent speech to boot!  

& there is more of ash now, of tears & sorrow 

it grows over their graves; Look--

i can feel it coming in the air tonight

....oh lord, can you feel it

encroaching over

in the rain to love again

grooming gangs,, a keynote speech

to touch our skins, & open up to heavens sent 

indiscriminate petrol bombs attached to fireworks 

non-christian children to contempt 

in the doorways disgrace in the end 

collages of white faces, to a healed fire as its breaks  

on volatile cocktails see what happens, 

to its own breathing pattern

& reproach the people who allowed such things to be, 

& bent the knee 

do not ere long change in sheets of bloodrain

an aggressive tug 

in the Mitie holding area,

a national picture behind Quilliams 

dogging in a striped top you flourish 

concierge in the marquee purge: remaining; 

of some form filling hate-filled grievance

under the greenwood tree, Yaxley's.  

– I’m only 5ft 6ins tall. A patriot.

–I love my country. I think that St George’s Day, April 23rd,

should be a public holiday. Residing in Biggleswade,,

my liberty was physically taken from me. 

I went out for a drink with a friend. 

In minutes it was on Twitter, someone telling people to find Yaxleys lingering

& give him a kicking. 

A group of students did. 

I’ve had an operation for a blood clot on my head. Scarred for life.

So I went to the house of the ringleader to give him a chance to apologise,

to not have his life ruined like mine. 

But they’re posh & I’m a Yaxley

a hole it should be so organized 

& the best & most suitable means for attaining what is aimed at.

gang-handed, as usual. 

Mummy slammed the door. Open season on Yaxley.

bloodline MIG Down’  a free man.

 I really, really don’t care about the skin on those people   

around a pole, a closed line a confounded soul, 

to reinstate hereditaries just below the ground

to ribboned daisies what happens next is 

put to ghastly music

drones & clicks, wings on their tunics

& battle dress diced after returning 

a terrified wall, at the empty marquee 

you look in the mirror your evil self & ask?

most of them exiting through holes cut in the floors of lumbering,

cramped whitey over the nearby drop zone 

through the Mitie induction. pump

out through the ‘Whitey Hole’, as it was quickly dubbed,

breaking their noses or teeth on the opposite edge

if they got the exit manoeuvre wrong 

as the slipstream grabbed their legs

aeromed Personal emergency evacuation.

The fuel burns above the left hand chest pockets of their tunics

& smocks, as per   clinical standards  crannied  a phone 

refused with no explanation.

A convoy of lorries to Whitey Hole,

like the air its crosses wraiths & strays 

& the onset of incorporeal hereditaments 

straight to the heart of reality:

a father inside the heart of the young

an escheat of flickers  closer,

a breach for holding 

ringing ears & trumpets these faces were thought to show? 

Whitey Hole,now on your own, 

beneath the surface of a mutating  cover, 

or alibi ribboned to mud British mud,

 a beating heart

its raging quiver in the L&D

for you to lay under

the atavistic backwardness 

the down the block territory & place, a free man swells

 in the noble broken pledge 

in Gross shell title  

mineral rights tag, the name that stuck at night what lies outside the DHSS the Third Report of the Joint Working Party?

& here comes the machete, aimed at your neck

‘…forgive them their trespasses…’  acceptable in ‘their’ British state.

What happens when there’s none of your lot left to forgive them?

That’s heaven? a box of balaclavas,

squatting over the White cliffs

what falls out? the working class

its ceremonial death passes into constant internal whispering

a mob’s blockade 

at the end of the cul-de-sac 

 it daily scabs mad right fringe

£20.00 ceases; filling us with 

divisions, tumults & every eviled head-down churning off

happier now, going to sleep with a smile on my face!

 that so-called silent majority.

or under it’s OK ate it there, at night

the end  that raging mob? 

the name that stuck had trackers 

ebbing all round, cut to words 

I’ll get a phone call from Hell,

 known only by his nickname, ‘Nemesis’.

I know, a bit out there.

But a lot of people only wanted to be known by nicknames

or pseudonyms for understandable reasons.

 that raging mob? 

as it curls a single step, I was nearing the end of my tether

when the governor called me in parades,

Of all clusters gleaming for Lee Rigby,

they were absolutely, entirely peaceful.

This wasn’t a rampaging mob demanding revenge

on the people who did it, in pith 

nicks ‘at the heart of’ 

more police more green spaces 

but the dull thud of a narwhal tusk is real

somewhere the Gower was dogged 

& burned the swastika flag, its bad for business.

‘Where’s this Yaxley, where’s that Yaxley?’

 a patriot. I love my country. My family

before the nearest raging mob

I recite these words! Everyone was

watching.

'the bloodline is MIG Down' 

I went into the kitchen looking for something to defend myself with,

which naturally had the chef panicking

but thankfully someone had rung 999 & the police came with the sirens going full blast.

Us being harassed,

before the nearest raging mob

I walked outside & & the police were there for me, &

shouting ‘get down, get down’! All these

ripping up paving slabs

At that point Kev came tearing up, some of my uncles arrived, my brother-in law—the reinforcements were just in time.

That was the time they identified my cousin, who they would later chase back to his house.

There were still only four police officers

& it could have turned nasty, but then

more officers started arriving.

It was a children’s party, all the parents were watching what was going on,

I thought, ‘wonderful’ sing a song, do a dance.

I couldn’t even take my kids to a birthday party in peace.

I'm the enemy of the state, short

of living in a cave, or having major plastic surgery

&wearing platform shoes, it had become impossible to switch off from being ‘me’. A Yaxley

a patriot. even went to the lawyer who represented Jon Venables, who murdered that Liverpool toddler,

Jamie Bulger. He could argue the case of someone who battered a two-year-old to death, but he wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole.

It seems that human rights only apply

to a select group of people.