England’s heroes
in pseudocommando with a leakage
at the Western Jet Foil site
Tug Haven there is more ash now
surrounding incendiary devices
–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 & it grows over their graves;
Look --I can feel it coming in the air tonight
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 & 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 Yaxleys.
I really, really don’t care about the skin on those people organised
& 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 confounded soul
a bent leg
& you ask yourself what is a Yaxley in contempt?
Through holes cut in the floors of lumbering, over nearby
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,
through the drop zone
the Mitie induction. pump
breaking their noses or teeth on the opposite edge
if they got the exit manoeuvre wrong
the slipstream would grab their legs
& fuel would burn above the left hand chest pockets
their tunics & smocks.
beneath the surface of a mutating cover,
a commercial for the Army:
good pay, quick Promotion, see the world.
Emphatic. Persuasive. Triumphant
like a meteor, dies?
a beating heart
before they’re ready a raging quiver cries
& in our chests
blocked down territories
in place, & name,, a free man today
a Yaxleys Revenge
you said blooded pails
& mercies crosswinds,,
over summons a single voice retching
so a quieter movement, a single voice England’s heroes
& here comes the machete, aimed at your neck
‘…forgive them their trespasses…’
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 on rooftops
a mob’s blockade at the end of a cul-de-sac,,
as it daily scabs frigid to £20.00 ceases.
A convoy of lorries to Whitey Hole,
remembering that raging mob?
An ad hoc street movement in the purest sense of the word.
They were all absolutely, entirely peaceful. The marching procession of all clusters gleaming all for Lee Rigby.
The governor put me in the front. 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.
Acted on a whim—a Yaxley whim —
in response to being offended at some piece
of PC madness or other,
a narwhal tusk is real.
Look,, the Gower was dogged
& burned the swastika flag, it's bad for business.
We-need-to-show-more-love-and-tolerance capitulation.
A real surprise, come judgement 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.
& I recite these words!
Everyone was watching:
'An English Identitarian.
Zero snowflake credentials.
A non-virtue signaller.
No Surrender.’
I do not apologise for having a problem with an alien ideology, an alien way of living & thinking that is being given a free reign to infect the country of mine & my children’s birth. No one consulted me on it. Did they consult you? They certainly didn’t ask our children.
Or a brush at the heart predated brought it up off the floor to another Yaxley whos been 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
a plague in the middle of town.
Women & children
baying for blood,
British Legionnaires
baying for blood,
members of the community
baying for blood
to chalk climes to apply a Yaxley cure,
forevermore & I'm the enemy of the state,
short of living in a cave,
Now 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.
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. No more.
So what, I stepped to confront the weasels
gagged death threats, baying for blood for 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!
Only then can I go on Holiday on the Straits of Calais!
I mean it! I really mean it, Us being harassed, our teeth!
My family even went to the lawyer who represented Jon Venables, the lad who murdered the Liverpool toddler, Jamie Bulger. He could argue the case of someone who battered a two-year-old to death, but he wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole. It seems that human rights only apply to a select group of people. Our teeth, the police, the sirens going full blast. I walked outside & & the police were there
for me, &
shouting ‘get down, get down’!
Reader, I refused. 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,, a single voice for England’s heroes dead.
