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!’
