Thursday 9 November 2023

O your Colonel,, as a father (II)


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 radiantly falling

abolish this pain below hedonic zero 

& make all hearts to emulate 

caustic preening the lumbar straits 

the baseline Sir Keith's 

scolded Schlaraffenland 

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

Moritz Erhardt

anticonvulse & the Sun’s Sun, 

to suffer the opposite 

outside block of flats near Cambridge Heath, 

in the midst of the rising

from a streetcar, suffer the opposite 

meal, sleep, quadrilateral, a square of clemency 

the Gray code.

 A psychoanalyst & a life coach walk into a room, 

an intern washes, puts on a fresh shirt & re-emerges 

blinking in the dwarfing light. Start again

sprawled across the shower floor,

 the water is still running.  Hearts of Oak. 

decomposing are members of the Orthodox Conservatives, 

the Bow Group or Turning Point UK, is

waiting for nothing but leaks out in the middle 

of the meeting table, 

Gekko Grundgesetz

to climb without oxygen 

to walk without eyes 

behind black oval you read 

‘The Economic Possibilities for Our Grandchildren’

by John Maynard Keynes from a stapled balcony 

overlooking a chilled wind 

blowing off the Elbe,, 

a karoshi Quisling at the Faust-Gymnasium 

to half empty bodies, half dead 

cuts your drowned trend, 

a paling sweet face 

begins with an itch, corrected speech 

corrected Yaxleys & did not die. 

For freedoms naivety & vulnerability 

& to still not die 

paedo dearest correct kept patriot cuts

to poor feeling fathers

Weisse Gestatten: Elite

The morning after the Korova Bar meeting,

a complementary perspective collapses

in a pailing of watered lilies, nothing else happens 

Monotherapy Hierarchies Premium Fridays Dark Sites, 

a gentle wind moves uninjuring your arms & legs 

a sweet tingling feeling your skin turns red

pale pink under ‘Resilience Week’ 

confines you at the bottom 

sprawled across the shower floor,

inexplicably are meal provisions, fitness amenities 

& alphahoods crimp best when brightest 

like a karoshi in a snare.  

Sliding sovereigns extra mile,;

a battleground lost 

& the skies spark & die with zephyrs

as an city interns burns a magic roundabout 

under spruced buds picked by vote 

whose dead hole now leads in-itching 

flaked white skin to prevent roosting 

flashes of British Gypsum,  

teethwet brogues underneath the bough

& rarities blown a rogue wind,

imposter grey mending England’s heroes 

in pseudocommando a leakage 

at the Western JetFoil site Tug Haven 

there is more ash now

surrounding incendiary devices are Yaxleys 

& more ash now, 

of tears & it grows over their graves;  

    I can feel it coming in the air tonight

encroaching over in the rain 

to love again grooming gangs,,  a keynote speech

to the touching of our skins, 

& open up to heavens sent 

indiscriminate petrol bombs, bent 

a knee for you & me

& do not ere in sheets of bloodrain. 

A Yaxley speaks: 

A message to the UK government, 

a message to the Gangs in Telford, 

if you come for our children we will come for you, 

if I can’t have my freedom than I choose death

& here stands the effigy of our noblest

soldiers on fire forevermore. 

In the Mitie holding area, an aggressive tug

a national picture behind Quilliams 

in the concierge marquee purge: remaining; 

on some hate-filled grievance,

a Yaxley under a greenwood tree:  

 I’m only 5ft 6ins tall. A patriot.I love my country. I think that St George’s Day, April 23rd, should be a public holiday. Residing in Biggleswade,, my liberty was physically taken from me. I went out for a drink with a friend. In minutes it was on Twitter, someone telling people to find Yaxleys lingering & give him a kicking. 

                                         A group of students did.

I’ve had an operation for a blood clot on my head. Scarred for life. So I went to the house of the ringleader to give him a chance to apologise, to not have his life ruined like mine. 

But they’re posh 

& I’m a Yaxley. 

Mummy slammed the door. 

Open season.

I really, really don’t care about the skin on those people organised 

& the best & most suitable means for attaining what is aimed at

gang-handed, as usual

bloodline MIG’ Down 

a free man                                                     around a pole, a confounded soul 

a bent leg 

& you ask yourself 

What is a Yaxley in contempt

These faces that were thought to show? 

O Whitey Hole,  now on your own, 

The Mitie induction pumps through the drop zone 

breaking their noses or teeth on the opposite edge

if they got the exit manoeuvre wrong 

the slipstream would grab their legs

& fuel would burn above their left hand chest pockets, 

their tunics & smocks, 

blooded pails under mercies crosswind,, 

summons a single voice retching 

a commercial for the Army:

We are looking for 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.

Good Pay, Quick Promotion, See The World. 

Emphatic. Per­suasive. Triumphant

a beating heart, a raging quiver 

in our chests blocked down territories 

in place, & name,, a free man today 

a Yaxleys revenge 

the single voice of England’s heroes dead 

& here comes the machete, 

aimed at your neck

‘…forgive them their trespasses…’  

But what  happens when there’s none of your lot left to forgive them? That’s heaven? a box of balaclavas

squatting over the White cliffs,, 

& what falls out? 


its ceremonial death passes 

into internal whisperings on rooftops

a mob’s blockade at the end of a cul-de-sac,, 

 daily scabs frigid to 

£20.00 ceases. 

A convoy of lorries to Whitey Hole, O 

remembering that raging mob? 

acted on a whim—a Yaxley whim —

in response to being offended at some piece 

of PC madness or other, a narwhal tusk 

is real. Now done with bowing & scraping 

to busybody do-gooders, to looking over my shoulder 

for the police every time I tweet 

something mildly offensive 

to a Home Counties communist.  

No more weekly sermons from the Marxist matron 

at the probation office, no more messing 

with mine & my family’s lives 

just for the hell of it. 

Yaxley is an ad hoc street movement 

in the purest sense of the word, 

entirely peaceful the marching procession

of all clusters gleaming for Lee Rigby 

to get dogs out demanding revenge 

on the people who did it ,like a dull thud

.a narwhal tusk 

Look,,  & the Gower was dogged 

& burnt the swastika flag, 

It's bad for business.

A real surprise, come judgement day. 

‘Where’s this Yaxley, 

Where's that Yaxley?’

Meanwhile just being ‘me’ continues to be a problem. 

A patriot. I love my country. My family.

or a brush at the heart

predated brought it up off the floor

to another Yaxley

whos been staked in fireproof letterboxes 

whilst those outside 

justified hammering war dead, 

the pipeline speech panic buttons 

war dead occasionally look at me to name-check 

a poppy burning, a plague in the middle of town. 

Women & children; 

baying for blood, 

British Legionnaires; 

baying for blood as

The BELLS OF HELL go a ting-a-ling-a-ling

for you but not for me,

the angels do a sing-a-ling-a-ling 

They’ve got the goods for me. 

Oh! Death, where is your sting-a-ling-a-ling

Oh! Grave, our victory? 

THE BELLS OF HELL go ting-a-ling-a-ling 

For you but not for me. 

The BELLS OF HELL go a ting-a-ling-a-ling

for you but not for me,

the angels do a sing-a-ling-a-ling 

They’ve got the goods for me. 

Oh! Death, where is your sting-a-ling-a-ling

Oh! Grave, our victory? 

THE BELLS OF HELL go ting-a-ling-a-ling 

For you but not for me.