Wednesday 19 July 2023

Ritblats Downed (restructured draft)


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 wave two fingers at British Land, 

PLC holy-stricken Corporate Governance

buildings are bricks & mortar, to be bought & sold 

& the drooping floors are a sinking chorus 

of imperium hard-ons to safeguarding lineages 

under opaline light portfolio canopies 

maw the strongbox to a wrathless tongue,,     a keynote 

like nothing under heaven. 

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

its starred out in a tiara

on the head of this fabulous city.

‘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 bind dewy bades the rents brightest 

when culled darkly, naked & afraid in the street

along the whole 127 Mile city 

turned inside-out to salvage at least one cobbled hill

to twist about a living good & uncommit 

the Malicious Damages Act 

inside a Ritblat spawn 

a neurotically protected citadel of the undead 

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

is 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, John

James an inkling of Law for general purposes; 

& ambuscade the Alpha Plus Group changelings 

smug the dowerage in Lethe-swamps 

& play British Virgin Islands, 

of prairie grasses & weeping willows, 

a short furlong in length of a Blast Shadow 

three solid armrests & yours, a manacle slithers

cold inside steel mullions

that become suddenly blinding

into stranded lugfails v-shaped, 

a single curved petal

made of copper shining to biff weaning

eyes behind scattergraphs &

a 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

when the flames spread radially 

around petals & all were alight, 

stems rose slowly from the gaping 

floorboards peeling upright  

with a single massive flame 

a sacred gasping light clap went around 

the anvils of my tears & ask 

the right people in the right place,

that calls all hearts to emulate £20.00 

as it ceases; & ceases filling us with

divisions, confusions, & tumults

opposing One Elephant

snopake’d with powdered glass 

manja line down

the floor which force breaks 

but a sinkhole increases daily

the very touching pass 

under heavy mercury vapour 

its greenish white 

the Central Management Office 

you go in ATM’s come out            

like arachinards from silver poisoned breath

cutting skin  without  blood  gradually,  

a chest without  air, eventually 

slackening thin to stomach, 

thinning in around the dimming glass

& to hash for life at night 

somewhere near or close the groundsheet slights  

pieces together the care password is StampCall* 112

the futures floors to be clutched under 

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

closing six billion penny pieces 

to a steel gavel,,

a sound as you appeared,                                                        

    your families growing trespasses 

to maggle in their own shape

in a heap a Ritblat in public

reversed your bilking lapse with HMRC,  

culled slow to auspices & the engrams abstracted

TOTAL FUNDS  you evade in the plenary room 

under stolen madrigals brigged like blockades 

remembering again

a mothers disappearance

through glen perishing eyelashes,,,

beds down your throats burrow,,  

a pros & cons

the painful frenzy

of bloody palpitations

to survive twisting leopards bane 

devils helmet, the queen of all poisons 

on parricided come downs 

burns a starry mark or padded path

the most watchful mother

to wallbang this scythe 

scathing a Ritblats bower,, 

making hematoma flowers

permanent, sweet, long lasting

in history minims

limited companies the quietest imagined regicide 

a whirligig inside10 nautical miles

agitatrixs 10 mothers twitching 

your penalties by finger blocks, Sir Johns

alms to the Adelphi Genetics Forum

of milk based eugenics 

& the cyanosis of a wall 

are pales a place for no-one cilled jambhead 

& Eddie Stobarts Class Alliance 

rises the famed ginger group, The League of Empire Loyalists 

as it dissolved or merged with Rheinzink hollowed 

72 habitable floors that YouGov poll found 

eight out of ten people 

agreed to a depressed apex in the head,, 

in ginnels in ennogs in snickets 

from public amenities a battleground lost 

& the skies spark & die with zephyrs

& the city interns burn a magic roundabout 

under spruced buds

picked by a vote whose dead hole

now leads in-itching flaked white skin

to prevent roosting 

the flashes of British Gypsum,  

under teethwet brogues

to cut the bough