Wednesday 26 July 2023

O your Colonel,, as a father (re-edit)


O your Colonel,, as a father indemnified the door, 

from Salisbury plains to stamping an interspace 

of whispers that I am stricken voiceless, again. 

Inside Praepostor Business Class,, 

a brig that sensation masts 

another Earldom, ancestries past

a carousel hologram of a boat race appears

all foppish fair haired boys 

in oak quad sculls, singing: 

‘O What is a Stephen Christopher Yaxley?’

Dreadnought Britannia Thetis,

St George Prince of Wales & Ten Logie Leggatts 

leading the line chalks over thinly 

whose clear body was so pure, & mine

after a moment looking out at the roaring sea, 

you ask what lies outside the White cliffs for me?  

to a single reply; 


daemons undernight-air claps & 

brisk’d my cheek the heraldic bleed, 

Blue Boys swilling on the beach

                                                                                                Cooee! cooee!    

 A boat as good as brains! & so und so weiter 

                                 that one man was much like another 

on this vast floating army cum laude.

There are perks in chains of lead. 

& chasten the colour, enterprise in england, our armada

a ladened wraith, a dodo skeleton 

in the morning you lay down

in a Recruitment crawl space 

of its office carpet broadloomed,, 

a June morning together. It is dark now along the rim 

& always now dark forever more. We never kissed…..

Bricklayers. Investors. Antecedents. Warfares.

O & hanging from a steel pergola, 

that yawning feeling comes over

the working-catharsis it hiccups 

& collapses, glitches of sweat, or blood: to nothing.  

Not even a coat of arms.  

What will you do if agency workers cross the picket line?  

Start again. 

& so what lies outside the White cliffs?

a white corral of freezing nervendings, a fallen head, 

a six-rink grass bowling green glued to a mansard roof

under no boss in Jack of Plate toxing bed,

they stiffened hard-ons to chartered hails 

eating Chartwells Free School Meals 

milligram by milligram 

Good over Evil, 

Life over Death 

depopulated centres enterprise children,  

& God is here on little screens 

above the concourse Sky News Broadcasts 

a perpetual loop of Dark Justice & you 

 bleed in a line or switch in disguises 

& what army? 

in the morning emulsifying under sunglass, 

a beating heart to a raging quiver?  

Good over Evil, 

Life over Death

starbursts reflect non-permanent futures 

a crown of tapered pilasters 

crony parvenu crawls out of each 

in melamine Yellow plaintive 5 year chembinge

& the city wall is hell, 

as if in a mould;  

where the lid or stopper turns grey-silver 

chrome chainlinked five stages of grief 

the multitude on the beach sings

take back this lonely song,, & beseech 

the unnameable bodies of hectares 

old panoply of grimoires

or now in venerated sprigs

over chalk breaks like Dover Straits

& listen to the quarter peal 

of Stedman Caters ringing

 as though sounding the tocsin 

on hearthrugs fading an English light 

curls up my back to tap on the hypercondensation,,

the window sneaks a think-tank 

                                  a translucent yew tree,

a coup operation; 

the Nationwide Festival of Light 1971

a berry for later, snaps the Peers 

as the poverty lobby is galvanised underneath 

gradients of eternal bliss to crypt it, 

to bury falling through the stairway at Bevins Court, 

at the basement of the building

a Vladamir creaks out it's whispered slue 

your name is bleach, 

moral standards the abolition of suffering 

in the central linking drum, my eyes are now glue 

weeping on the gallery floors,, 

you watch from the rooftop canopy, 

a tapering & thinning air, 

what is to be done with Hopton Wood Stone, 

clipped now painted?

To move at night near anti-pigeon spikes 

inside pressing up against the vulnerable white skin, 

the skin of a living boy, the skin without blood gradually, 

a chest without air, a slackening thin stomach thinning 

Yaxleys in the area. 

Lilies mercifully fouled to pickering 

on crimson thread to crypt it, yes, 

wrapped around my head

this act weakened me but, 

in a way, I have been cared for

yes, I am diminished 

but I am also emboldened, 

& it feels like a passion coming on 

like god on wort & is yours alone

so bend our Mayflower & steer boldly 

through this desperate winters sea, 

return to us that aching feeling, 

a crushing, a Yaxley altruism phasing out 

tonight under this bluelight 

to meld all bleating strong people's blood, 

That is good & not shitmud! 

& I can see from fits of burning 

rubber ever glowing, never receding 

the line of fealty choke,, s of sublime well-being 

destined to be 

a Yaxley hidden 

pickering to tilth O your Colonel,, as a father, 

& the fairest hushes of the wettest lips 

& uppermost purpose clangs like the jip of a needle 

under the State, a strike for your life! 

a painless bite, a mother's love, 

the profoundest peace,

& logarithmic pulses imp-

lore us; spectral Keith Josephs failing radiantly 

abolish this pain below hedonic zero 

& make all hearts to emulate 

its caustic preening, the lumbar straits 

the baseline Sir Keith's scolded Schlaraffenland 

the light underneath there is always

intervening on the ground the pie-tree

fatlegged eating through a cloud of rice pudding; 

on the other side of the fence an empty apparition, 

basted in votives 

the gene code is Generation Merit,

so undog your living twilight, 

& soften the scratching lid 

we’ve ferreted out every weak spot 

to peel away each loose fleck

while sweet green meadows lie beneath.