Thursday 1 June 2023

A Yaxley (draft/unfinished)


A rogue wind detaches ,a grey imposter mending

to England’s heroes in pseudocommando 

with a leakage at the Western Jet Foil site 

at Tug Haven 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, a message to 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, 

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

it grows over their graves; Look--

i can feel it coming in the air tonight

O lord, can you feel it encroaching over

in the rain 

to love again

grooming gangs,,  a keynote speech

to the touching of our skins, & to open up to heavens sent 

indiscriminate petrol bombs attached to fireworks 

non-christian children to contempt 

in the doorways in the end 

collages of white faces,  

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 you flourish 

in the concierge  marquee purge: remaining; 

on 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. 

Mummy slammed the door. Open season on Yaxley.

a hole it should be so  

I really, really don’t care about the skin

on those people

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

gang-handed, as usual

bloodline MIG Down’  a free man  

around a pole, a closed line 

a confounded soul, 

to reinstate hereditaries just below 

the ground to ribboned daisies 

see what happens now 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? with bended leg, 

What is a Yaxley in contempt? 

or to be just a clod like me,, 

its swooning sigh most of them 

through holes cut in the floors of lumbering,

cramped whitey

over 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.

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

& smocks, as per   clinical standards   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, 

stilled in a breach for holding 

these faces that were thought to show? 

O Whitey Hole,   now on your own, 

beneath the surface of a mutating  cover, 

or alibi mud British mud,

 a beating heart

its raging quiver in our chests the L&D

an atavistic backwardness 

that blocked down territories 

in place, & name a free man 

the noblest pledge in Gross shell title  

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 whisperings rooftops

a mob’s blockade at the end of a cul-de-sac,, 

 it daily scabs to frigid £20.00 ceases; 

O in my life, I am much happier now, 

going to sleep with a smile on my face! at night the ends   

that rages, the name that stuck had trackers ebbing all round

I get a phone call from Hel, 

known only by a nickname alone, ‘Nemesis’.

I know, a bit out there but Hel was a constant.

A lot of people only wanted to be known by nicknames

or pseudonyms for understandable reasons. 

Remembering that raging mob? hurled insults, cults a single step,

I was nearing the end of my tether

when the governor put me in the front of all the action.

The marching procession of all of clusters gleaming all for Lee Rigby

They were all absolutely, entirely peaceful.

We may have acted on a whim—a Yaxley whim usually—

in response to being offended at some piece 

of politically correct madness or other, to stop the falling line. 

This was an ad hoc street movement in the purest sense of the word.

This wasn’t a rampaging mob baying for blood, 

to get dogs out demanding revenge on the people who did it 

,like the dull thud 

of a narwhal tusk is real. Look,,  the Gower was dogged 

& burned the swastika flag, its bad for business.

we-need-to-show-more-love-and-tolerance capitulation. 

A real surprise, come judgment day. 

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

 a patriot. I love my country. My family

MEANWHILE, JUST being ‘me’ continues to be a problem. 

O & I recite these words! Everyone was watching.        


  'the bloodline is MIG Down'  

a brush at the heart predated

scooped it up off the floor 

& brought it to another Yaxley by dead light

to enquire the accursed 

staked in fireproof letterboxes 

whilst those outside justified hammering war dead, 

the pipeline speech panic buttons 

war dead occasionally look at me to name-check 

a poppy burning chitin. 

Ripping up paving slabs again

it hurts,  like full  of  sand. 

A plague in the middle of town, its chalk climes to apply 

a Yaxley cure. 

Women & children 

baying for blood, 

British Legionnaires 

baying for blood,

members of the community

baying for blood,

& I'm the enemy of the state, 

short of living in a cave, 

or having major plastic surgery 

& wearing platform shoes,  I don’t mind admitting

the natural consequences of switching off 

from being ‘me’ a true Yaxley, across like a badge of honour

No more weekly sermons from the Marxist matron 

at the probation office, no more messing 

with mine & my family’s lives 

just for the hell of it. 

  done with bowing & scraping 

to busybody do-gooders, to looking over my shoulder 

for the police every time I tweet something mildly offensive 

to a Home Counties communist. Unbeknownst to you lot,

Little Craigy who got his teeth knocked out by the mounted branch.

Hows that. British standards. British democracy

their so-called rights above

those of young men who risk & sacrifice. 

I really, really don’t care about the colour of those people’s skin

or the nature of their religion. but maybe if I say it enough times

it might sink into some thick skulls eventually  

as opposed to wanting them to burn in hell 

or be ambushed by the metropolitan liberal elite.

O, so well, the softest hand  take my mind away  fist sized

a price for having me  a Yaxley life,,  I was still standing

& free to speak my mind. 


I phoned Tom Costello about a (scene) 

the hatred of the English

A plague in the middle of town at 1am, steaming,

I was wearing a CP Company coat,

which was hooded with goggles—I looked like a frog.

I got a bit of banter about my shit haircut.

I was joking, saying ‘ribbit, ribbit’.

A load of beer & a shit joke.

My over-arching crime,

at least in the eyes of the British establishment,

to be known as ‘Shit Hair’. 

So I stepped to confront these weasels 

death threats, baying for blood for all their evils 

 not enough if you ask me 

 just the groomers to blame

the people who knew & looked away

council managers, social workers, they should all pay

should lose their pensions in a day

but that wouldn't even be enough 

I would like to see their heads in a scruff 

for calling me ‘Shit Hair’ 

the consequences will psychological warfare!