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.
