Wednesday 10 May 2023

Yaxleys 2 (draft/unfinished)


Sliding through generation time sovereigns 

its anonymous extra mile,  its harnessed;

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 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 

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 circles 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 

– a patriot. I’m only 5ft 6ins tall.

–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’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.

bloodline MIG Down’  a free man.

 I really, really don’t care about the colour of 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 eviled 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 across wraiths & strays 

& the onset of dementia

straight to the heart of reality: incorporeal hereditaments 

a father inside the heart of the young right 

of escheat flickers  closer, that all that

Yaxleys, ancestor worship 

with conversation listed 

paste like a broach for holding 

ringing ears & trumpets these faces were thought to show? Debrett’s

Whitey Hole,now on your own, 

beneath the surface of a mutating  cover, 

or alibi ribboned to mud 

it’s 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 & to place, a free man

 hanging in the noblest broken pledge  in Gross shell title  

mineral rights tag, the name stuck at night

what lies outside the DHSS

& the Third Report of the Joint Working Party

& go down 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 White cliffs? rip the working class