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,
stiffened in chartered hails Chartwells Free School Meals
eaten 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 pilasters
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
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
interpellating in the dicy borderline, an open flower,
rebukes the most intimate nerve.
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 tended
inexplicably meal provisions fitness amenities
alphahoods crimp the biggest & brightest karoshi in a snare
sliding through generation time sovereigns
its anonymous extra mile, its harnessed;
that say it to this bruising cup
to touch our skin in a region of hapless burning
where we could lay you say,
just above the security efforts of tenure what is underscored is
water still running decomposing in workplaces, dragged to shimmer on joy my wrecked petition, & break to parts & soft attributes,,
an itch curls its envoi up to working patterns
inner Maslowian heritage the pyramid magic
reverts to aims into wanked,
generations flung in his sector,
of spilling over into the 6am nights
hailing 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
incendiary devices circle to patch all over the forecourt
heads bow in solemn silence
a message to the uk government.
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
& there is more of ash now, of tears & sorrow
it grows over their graves;
i can feel it coming in the air tonight
encroaching over Yaxleys 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 to see what happens,
its own breathing pattern
& reproach the people who allowed such things to be,
& bent the knee
do not ere long change in a rain of blood
an aggressive tug
in the Mitie holding area, a national picture behind Quilliams
dogging in a striped top you flourish
in the marquee purge: remaining;
of some form filling hate-filled grievance
under the greenwood tree, a Yaxley
– 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. the horrid task was to go burning round the estate,, corrected puppets by simply responding to them
my liberty was physically taken from me.
I was locked back up.
residing in Biggleswade 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 am Yaxley a hole should be so organized & governed as to furnish the best & most suitable means for attaining what is aimed at. gang-handed, as usual.
Mummy slammed the door. Open season on Tommy.
bloodline MIG Down’ a free man.
I really, really don’t care about the colour of those people
around a pole a closed line 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
spiking a terrified wall, at the empty marquee
you look in the mirror your evil self
most of them exiting through holes cut in the floors of lumbering, cramped whitey over the nearby drop zone through the Mitie induction. out through the ‘Whitey Hole’, as it was quickly dubbed, breaking their noses or teeth on the opposite edge of the hole if they got the exit manoeuvre wrong as the slipstream grabbed their legs aeromed Personal emergency evacuation plans
the fuel burns above the left hand chest pockets of their tunics & smocks, as per clinical standards crannied a phone
refused with no explanation
the insecurity of their position
a convoy of lorries to Whitey Hole,
like an air there across wraiths & strays
& the onset of dementia
straight to the heart of the latent reality:
incorporeal hereditaments
a father inside the heart of the young right
of escheat flickers closer, that all that
Yaxleys, paste like 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 ito mud British mud
a beating heart a raging quiver in the L&D
for you to lay under of the atavistic backwardness
down the block territory & place, a free man
hanging in the noble broken pledge in Gross shell title
mineral rights tag, the name stuck at night at night
what lies outside the DHSS
& the Third Report of the Joint Working Party.
