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
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.
