Thursday 29 June 2023

You are Britain’s Fairest Man (draft/unfinished)


Officer pushed him. He went forward. 

Thought he had hit his head. 

Expected blood beneath the surface of the skin 

or dead tissue above the surface hair is an attribute, 

part of the human body it breaks into an arrangement 

or configuration the category of a weapon elegised to class 

a pricket gathering at the base of emergency situations, 

with just enough hope below that glow filled blood 

is yours,         QC Rivlin 

on moonbeams a cruel vector of birchen pens,

The Director of Public Prosecutions Keir Starmer, 

a redoubtable wielding roflcopter 

of justice drugged to taskforce a plea-filled earglow 

your children's hopes as burnt missives, 

commercial leases,, the courtyard apex tribunal

upon which the presiding authority sat; 

inside these delicate circles that conceit 

hails exception lawfully as garlands of stars circling 

together delighting again bent on again   

that such light cloud fragments 

still face justice & not twist about the public deserving 

our legally enshrined, & age-old tradition, 

to spiked to peace, the lauding State,, 

whittling germane all-powerful love 

that creates & tends to all things, 

in its care that's flashing through me, right now! 

from the last stars utter commitment & overweening 

Power of the Bar, & you repeat to stuttering,, 

 give us the tools & arguments & defence lines 

& to allow us to say that the water cannons are necessary 

or plastic bullets allowed, permissible & still today,

as its deterring eternal embrace is blissful 

& is with good goodness, & is their existence : 

‘You will feel the full force of the law. 

And if you are old enough to commit these crimes, 

you are old enough to face the punishment’

 is policing over personnel codes 

& what constitutes, a weapon previously 

a history of Judgecraft, 

courts depart merely ciphers for

Twenty-Four-Hour court sittings 

with no pause on weekends 

to increase the rate of convictions, & 

made a personal appearance at 4am 

at Highbury Magistrates Court to boost morale.

Core Quality Standards     

billing my head’s so burnt. – a thousand times before:  

You sweet children, tell me then: 

Aren’t you part of Lucifer’s race? 

You’re so nice I’d like to kiss you, again & again, 

It feels as if this is your proper place. 

To be naturally handed down 

to the conveyor-belt of Justice.  

‘a strategic decision has been made … 

serving as a circuit breaker,

that in all cases from cursing at the light? 

an uplift, bursts of punitiveness– are that turned 

to the beloved, & now by British law, to be dragged 

& snatched at, like scabs who cry a placard is weaponised 

& in the end, you’re just a disgusting shite. 

Why’d you keep fluttering here? survived to a little force,

like tar & sulphur & this is a fucking roadmap

filing to desist to you to grieve in the portcullis 

as these accoutrements meet human rights guidelines

understand : Core Quality Standards 

a Snooper’s Charter

as teeth on rapid riot prosecutions 

hovering roses as in curves burning above

as hearts may contest yet words are truest, 

said from clearest gathering round its apex, 

as framed,  I am here, in my proper place. 

It’s hard to see how anyone escapes. 

Though day may smile on us with rational gleams, 

The night entwines us in a web door creaks,

 a eulogising speech breaks against the teeth 

streamlining to statutory swallows 

to the Knight of the Realm,, then raised 

to codes of conduct granular predecessors 

unremitting work ethic to the emptiest space 

bleaches behind us, a standing worth & what was said, 

Sir the State, its servants perquisites & protections 

listening advisers, exercises, focus groups 

hatreds dread stilled to the edge to receive, , 

on your knees the Court-news, murders close your mouth & nose! 

You are Britain’s Fairest Man.