Wednesday 10 May 2023



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; 


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 &not 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.