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
