Saturday 24 June 2023

Yaxley (rough final draft)


An imposter mending 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.

a hole it should be so  I really, really don’t care about the skin on those people organized 

& 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 & hereditaries bent leg, 

You ask yourself what is a Yaxley in contempt? 

cramped returning to whitey its swooning sigh 

its island weather 

through holes cut in the floors of lumbering, 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 commercial for the Army 

on my arm, snares a neighbour 

Good Pay, Quick Promotion, seeing the world. 

Emphatic. Per­suasive. Triumphant

like a meteor, dies?

 a beating heart

before they’re ready a raging quiver 

& 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 

& here are some little tranches floating back & forth,  

goes under the sill harrowing 

so a quieter movement, a single voice England’s heroes 

Build it again, Build, in your heart! 

that noblest soldiers basking what’s good in peace

the noblest pledge is Gross shell title  

that sticks at night 

& 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 the nickname, ‘Nemesis’. I know, a bit out there but Hel was a constant. 

They’re fine English men, just like the men I met in the military.

A lot of people only wanted to be known by nicknames

or pseudonyms for understandable reasons. 

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 

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 

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. 

to switch off from being ‘me’ a true Yaxley,   

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. 

Do they even care that Little Craigy got his teeth knocked out 

by the mounted branch? 

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’! 

I refused

of this blood & as it is protected, 

twitching a single voice for England’s heroes dead. 

Build it again, Build, in your heart! 

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

& finally free to speak my mind. A load of beer & a shit joke. On numerous counts to put me away, to silence me, the state to scream their hatreds Paradise on death cult promises.

I phoned Hel 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 only over-arching crime, to have ‘Shit Hair’.

So what, I stepped to confront the weasels 

gagged death threats, baying 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

but that wouldn't even be enough I say! 

I would like to see their heads in a scruff 

for calling me ‘Shit Hair’! 

would put you all in the Black Sea

& everyone sings ‘What is a Stephen Christopher Yaxley!’