Tuesday 25 July 2023

Ritblat Downed (2nd re-edit)


Nothing produced on him

a disc of omissions, 

your mothers disappearance 

Sir James Ritblat  (reticulated),, 

your mothers disappearance 

near a Hertfordshire airfield 

10 nautical miles John agitatrixs 

hurdling a 7 per cent annual cut 

10 nautical mothers to the laxey 

billfroth long with memories 

& then there were none but fathers 

decimals lie in bed late at night watching old comedies 

such as Only Fools & Horses, Porridge & Carry On films. 

‘That’s my humour,’ Senior Ritblat titters out:  

‘I’m much happier going to sleep with a smile on my face. 

But… it isn’t the same.

Since we have lost Tiny in an airplane …

we shared the Cots in clubbing faith

& now she's gone, but all is not lost.’

Trailing two fingers at British Land, 

PLC holy-stricken Corporate Governance

Sir John, 

You are now part of the Post-Boom years 

on a hill near a farm in Wimpstone, Warwickshire.

In Teletubbyland, the hillocks are flooded with blood 

to make a coin tower made up of six billion penny pieces

starred out in a tiara on the head of this fabulous city.

buildings are bricks & mortar, to be bought & sold 

& the drooping floors are a sinking chorus 

of imperium hard-ons 

under opaline light portfolio 

canopies maw the strongbox 

to a wrathless tongue,,     a keynote 

like nothing under heaven. 

‘He’s just like Prince Charles,’ said an analyst. 

Fondling cuff-links nervously 

up the Cupronickel Ponte Giardino 

& down with our enemies, 

to Get Living 

undermanic thieves 

bind dewy bades

rents the brightest when culled darkly 

naked & afraid

along the whole 127 Mile city turned inside-out

& salvage at least one cobbled hill

still twisting about a living good

humming on You,, notice an air turned by guises 

a number of design objectives 

to the stated aims the whole earth

of TMO & Client aspirations

parterres aflame or be forbade 

& uncommit the Malicious Damage Act 1861,

 in sinkhole estates to spot braid 

under broiling suns ZoneOne Land rainsoaked 

as a neurotically protected citadel 

of the undead rolled in primrose,  

amenities fall out a glass atria 

inside a Big Yellow Self-Storage 

big sheds big plastic-clad buildings, 

a Rubik’s Cube steel column

narthex John, your daughters cursed 

word-lists, a birthday,

light bulbs draped through the grounds of the party

FTSE100 live camels, monkeys, & Vintner commodes, 

a tent with a gold sign beaming 

1# ‘Ritblat Family Circus’ 

to cater for every whim 

like beating frogs to death 

in the midsummer evenings

remembering the feeling 

on that river the view was undying,

under the elder tree rendered a Michael McIntyre 

on hand to provide the jokes

the bitten toxins:

The most elusive of creatures

a right-of-centre millennial 

breaking over the White Cliff of Dover, 

a Non-virtue signaller. Zero snowflake credentials. 

English Identitarian. No Surrender.

 ‘People aren’t even real’ giggles Ritblat,

& all the forms & images in the world can be revoked

remembering your childhood

your infant light, Sir John

an inkling of Law ambuscades 

the Alpha Plus Group changelings 

smug the dowerage in Lethe-swamps 

& play British Virgin Islands with mudgiants

of prairie grasses & the weeping willows, 

as a short furlong in length of a Blast Shadow 

in three solid armrests 

yours, Sir John 

the manacle slithers

cold inside steel mullions

that become suddenly blinding

stranded into lugfails v-shaped, 

a single curved petal, a Danny Boyle petal

made of copper shining to biff weaning

out eyes behind scattergraphs as

the hymn went away  

the sun also rises 

in every whispered word 

a body lies in a boules pitch, in stables, 

in a tennis court, in an underground swimming pool

& the flames spread radially 

around its petals tight 

& all were alight,  

as the stems rose slowly from the gaping 

floorboards peeling upright 

a single massive flame 

a sacred gasping light, 

went around the anvils of my tears 

& ask again the right people in the right place,

& call all hearts to emulate 

a £20.00 reuptake

as it ceases; & fills us with 

divisions, confusions, & tumults

& to hash for life at night

the groundsheet  

pieces together the care password is StampCall* 112

& the futures floors clutched under 

a roof garden, a café, a ‘breakout room’ 

closing to six billion penny pieces 

a steel gavel,,

a sound as you appeared,  Sir John                                                      

    your families growing trespasses 

rack over twitching

10 nautical miles agitatrixs

corporal penalties, you evade  

in the plenary room under said stolen madrigals

brig like blockades 

remembering again 

a mothers disappearance, 

through glen perishing eyelashes 

a fading sapping thin over your bilking lapse 

with HMRC culls slow auspices

& engrams abstracted the total funds 

documented the Gamma Civic,

the floors have absolutely 

no cracks at all,, 

to survive twisting leopards bane 

& devils helmet, & the queen of all poisons 

on parricided come downs 

burns a starry mark or padded path

& the Beechcraft Super King Air

latches seem a little flimsy,

when you see the ones on a Piper-

its adds a little excitement to the old flying

before Leavesden not Denham.

Isabel Ritblat, in millibars

warm cold occluded against the wind

the Cessnar doors 172, 'Group Captain'

a gentle slip to wallbang this scythe

above the parapet & cry St. Mortiz to foul Sir John,

'a noble man' for noblesse oblige

& regurgitate a fugue outside St Andrews hospital

for under death today

tomorrow the sun rises a chorus line

& the moon sets a private chime

to scathing a Ritblats bower,, 

& making hematoma flowers

permanent, sweet, & long lasting

history minims limited companies

Leading the Long-terms on

European Real Estate: Leadership & Management,

you will not find a Ritblat Tower

as the dower hand regicides the quietest whirligig 

inside nautical miles Isabel agitatrixs

10 nautical mothers twitching 

penalties by the finger blocks, 

yr. alms to the Adelphi Genetics Forum 

clots to milk based eugenics

Sir John,   

like arachnids from silver poisoned breath

you go in ATM’s come out

its greenish white 

Central Management Office 

heavy under mercury vapour 

a sinkhole increase daily remember

itching powdered glass manja lined

down, a Ritblat snopake’d 

a mothers disappearance,

remembering again

sky gardens, viewing platforms

the Public London Charter

for the users, owners & managers of public spaces

linked a mangle to light hoisted tackling root 

,,the user crashes like a gateway built

into a program sealed its missing features,

cut out in the sky is office blood

in enfilade black steel laws. 

it dissolves or mergea with Rheinzink hollowed 

72 habitable floors that YouGov poll found 

eight out of ten people agreed

to a depressed apex in the head

a pros & cons beds down your throats burrow,,  

Sir John,

as stretches its sick building syndrome

the terms & conditions break pealing into jagged stripes

past the black fence lies a green expanse,

your life under security solutions loud as glass

over this furrowed glebe tonight

a Section 106 Agreement turns to dust.