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.
Finally.
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!
