Woollard’s Eulogy

A life in the LTD redevelopment failing 

missives what pangs capital directives 

what pangs a hissing horsehair wig 

Woollard’s eulogy in the loop,, in the Soul Politic 

at the time of previous circulars:

‘the Kraysstitched’ &

‘the Richardsonsis stitched’ & any other case

which has been demanded for political reasons. 

Is stitched. A silent creak for your protection,, 

& O the will of the government is 

sacred impressive multi-torch cauldron 

& the flames spread radially around 

& all were alight 

as the stems rose slowly peeling upright 

a single massive flame 

a sacred gasping light

around the anvils of my tears 

& touch this house as it lifts the national cake, 

to respond that life, itself 

is to kneel painfully on stone

& then wipe all expression from your face,,

so that the viewer

would read suppressed or inner pain

as it renders its aching child branded plea:

To pull my finger, my life,  

its feeling of ordnance in the tiny pip. 

That's mine. That idyll. That life. My hand.

As it touches the outer fray 

& falls to tiny strands

every pull therein remands. My life. 

a spindle corrupts, as it coils 

that forms tiny little red dots 

all over your skin's surface barrier 

half-seen from inside hums your face

‘it was all good fun until someone

tried to kill a police officer with a fire extinguisher’

physical keys, numerical codes, complex passwords, 

biometric identification hushes 

that sloops Sitex & 

to undarken light Woollards 

& Woollards come back

blanching the floor plan 

rosacea horsehairs shrill adherences 

& graphical projections                  

now  aspects of British Business 

& Professional Life are thriving,

‘Our legal system is widely acknowledged to be long

on integrity and short on corruption.’

A singular success, with a view to causing a gap 

in the crowd below spectrally

to kneel painfully 

this silent mechanism, curls inwards

murmuring the letter breathe of Law

the holding pen exacting, a brace of bodies 

the place from which litigants 

(a physical demarcation between the core players 

& the areas outside that consecrated space) 

are represented by a wooden or brass railing 

through which to whisper is:

(Members of the Jury) 

 Joan 

Yr Honour. yr Worship. The nation is in disrepair, I am from Southend, Essex. Well, at least he won't have to pay student fees whilst he is locked up! He will get all the education he wants and needs courtesy of you and me. The great English taxpayer. Ironical isn't it?. He should serve a minimum of 5 years. The idiot could have killed someone. He is only sorry that he has been caught. Well done to his mother though. She has proved that not all scumbags come from rough backgrounds.   

Chris the Anarchist,  

Yr Honour. yr Worship. Typical right wing rantings by the Daily Mail again.....what he did was wrong ,but what we have here is a classic example of this Fascist establishment making an example of the people who dare speak out against them. He is a young bright kid who got carried away...luckily no one was hurt as that would have been a different matter...but massive  stretch is a future ruined....i’ve known people do far far worse and get less......Open your eyes sheeple to what's going on....and remember Class War...the only war worth fighting…  

fedupukcitizen, 

Yr Honour. yr Worship. Why should you be pointing the finger at us taxpayers, your trucks not with us? How much will he cost? Prison. Whilst I don't agree with the system I'm not entirely sure the taxpayer should fund the likes of this fool!! 

Jayney2dogs, 

Yr Honour. yr Worship. I am from West Yorks, UK. Most jobs that students had are now in the hands of Europeans. Don't you see that the kids of tomorrow will pay my and yours pensions, but now will be slaves to the government as they will be indebted for 30 years, look further at this please!!! I know what he did was wrong but a harsh sentence?!?  How will he deal with being in prison with low life thugs? Have any of you ever done something you shouldn't have? His life is now ruined by that one moment of stupidity. 

Law Abiding of, 

Yr Honour. yr Worship. I drive my large Trojan armoured engineering vehicle from Ringwood, near Bagnam Forest Corner, my 16 Air Assault Brigade. It looks like a giant metal lobster. I love it & drive it everywhere I can. Any baby faced long haired yob, can get an education on life at one of H.M’s HOTELS. It's why I attended Army Command & Staff College in Camberley & NATO Defense College, I’m finishing my last stint as Chief of Staff of Forces Pension Society!  It gives me that pickering feeling, my adjutant 10 para, my signaller, my Masher, my kindred flame. I promised Masher, dear dear Masher…that if I died before him... That I would come & tell Masher, that I love my country & I sank to the bottom of it once but you were there, my dearest, most tender, Masher. Your lovebite continues inside me.

& so this type can be dispensed into the Soul Politic.

& so this type can be dispersed into personal morality.

& so this type can be poured into your neck,

Geoffrey Rivlin QC, 

with or without whipping Woollard’s

in red blood rain – this type requires specialist disposal

this type can be dispensed into a sewage drain 

this type can be dispersed into the air. 

This type can be poured into your neck tie.

& the shape of Woollard unreturned 

as you dry out in the rain, 

the cascade & its motorcade 

in the tiny pip that idyll of freezing mud

in six silhouetted storied separations

another conciliatory voice:

'i am your, gurgle gaggle of dead beads 

tight to night short-lived, 

swiftly repented the lives of those loved 

jeopardised. I am a loving, caring, gentle boy.’

& to be a kind of wall that has a little hole in it, 

mangled & through that hole,, glassed wastlings 

fingerhooked in a fugue state a body becomes separated 

from another body in order to bemutter,,

                what to tungsten or float opaque 

remembering walls against holes 

THAT INNOCENCE IS TRUE 

as if over scaffold 

Woollard’s with or without whipping 

Commander Bob Broadhurst of Trooping the Colour, 

a dying breed. 

At the National Siege Management Gala, his speech:  

–I felt a suppressed or inner pain, a pickering feeling 

to keep the City open for business! Outside the Stock Exchange slumped in an alley on Threadneedle Street. A little bird told me down a deer track, or was it through a thick thicket of waist-high ferns? That clearing of sweetly scented camomile, everything then around us was so bursting with life! The pheasant cocks scurrying through the undergrowth, resin dripping from clefts of evergreens. Now this is truly brightness itself, a pretty precious peaceful protest.  

A snap to life, 

in the gene break down 

my cenotaph its benzene frosted light 

the petrochemical sheen of feathers bright 

in definite areas removed his shoulder number 

covered the bottom of his face with his balaclava

weeping at the most unexpected things,,

Woollard’s spectrally be hurting

like human kindness, human vulnerability 

as ringpulls are lost 

& pennies turn to gentle patiences 

teeth under thumbscrew sermons

what was said intact demerits,,ss 

a logistic regression 

to analyse the measure of verdicts 

−a dichotomous variable. 

Results from logit models are presented both in odds-ratio form & as percentage differences from the baseline condition. The percentage differences reported are those derived from the logit models, i.e., they take account of other variables in the model. Odds-ratios are the most commonly presented measures of effect size bits that stick about or twist 

to, what is cut along an axis 

cutlosses as they sunbrighten 

your lumbar spine

its cascading to crashing castors 

illuminated a body pumps through the footring 

& now are Woollard’s in the room,, 

peels away, a dead relation 

crawling like epicures spectrally the same.  

Would You Shop Your Own Child?

In my heart of hearts, if I had known what would happen the day I shopped my son to the police - and that he’d never forgive me or talk to me again - I don’t think I’d have done it.

Probably like  Tania Garwood  I thought Oliver get a slap on the wrist, a few nights behind bars at the local police station that would teach him a lesson.

I didn’t realise he would go to prison, and I certainly didn’t realise he would go down for so long. It’s a terrible ­situation for any mother to find herself in, and I live with my decision every day.

Oliver ‘s father and I split up when he was four, but we tried to give our son the perfect upbringing. He went to £25,000-a-year public school - St Bede’s in Hailsham, East Sussex - but started dabbling with cannabis aged 14.

By the time he was 21, he was mixing with a bad crowd and clubbing all the time. His behaviour had become erratic, and when I found a wrap of brown powder on the kitchen table I knew I had to do something decisive.

Oliver was asleep on the sofa when the officers arrived. They searched him and found another wrap of brown powder - which turned out to be ecstasy. Then they took him outside and searched his car. What they found in the boot shocked me to the core - £10,000 worth of ecstasy. Oliver was in much deeper than I could ever have ­imagined.

Instead of a slap on the wrist, he was charged with possession with intent to supply and in April 2009 was given an 18-month prison ­sentence. The sentence could have been much longer, but the judge accepted Oliver was a ­runner for a drugs gang and not a ringleader.

I was devastated. It was the last thing I’d wanted to happen. Oliver hasn’t spoken to me since. He refused to let me visit him in prison and never replied to my many letters.

My biggest fear was that prison would make him even worse. Oliver was released after five months and went to live with his father, who gave him a job. He’s 24 now and has started his own ­property ­developing business. At least he’s got his life back on track, but it’s heartbreaking for me not being involved in his life any more.

I dread the future. One day he’ll get married and have children, and it will be even more painful. My younger son Oliver , 22, who still lives at home with me in Haywards Heath, tells me bits about Oliver life, but not much. He’s very loyal to his brother. It’s a strain on my relationship with Oliver father, but I think he understands why I did it.

In one respect, I still think I did the right thing. Oliver could have got even more involved with drugs and ended up dead or serving a much longer prison sentence. I know what an agonising decision  Tania Garwood  had to make.

As a parent, you have to teach your children that their actions have consequences. I know exactly what she is going through right now. It’s something I have to live with everyday.

People stop me in the street and say: ‘You did the right thing.’ But most days it doesn’t feel like it.

Officer pushed him. He went forward. 

Thought he had hit his head. 

Expected blood beneath the surface of the skin 

or dead tissue above the surface 

hair is an attribute, 

part of the human body it breaks 

into an arrangement or configuration, 

the category of a weapon elegised to class 

a pricket gathering at the base 

of emergency situations, 

that glow filled blood 

is yours,       QC Rivlin 

on moonbeams a cruel vector of birchen pens,

The Director of Public Prosecutions Keir Starmer, 

a redoubtable wielding roflcopter 

of justice drugged to taskforce 

a plea-filled earglow of your children's hopes 

as burnt out missives 

in commercial leases,, the courtyard tribunal

upon which the presiding authority sat; 

inside these delicate circles hails exception lawfully 

enshrined the age-old tradition, 

legally spiked to peace, 

to a lauding State,, 

that creates & tends to all things, 

& that in its care 

that's flashing through me, right now! 

the Power of the Bar, 

that stars last utter & give us the tools 

& arguments & defence lines 

& to allow us to say 

that the water cannons are necessary 

& plastic bullets allowed, 

permissible & all day,

its deterring eternal embrace 

is blissful to see skin break

& with good goodness, it is their existence

& you will feel the full force of the law

held the history of Judgecraft 

to courts depart merely ciphers,

& what constitutes, a weapon 

Twenty-Four-Hour court sittings 

no pause on weekends 

to increase the rate of convictions, & 

made a personal appearance at 4am 

at Highbury Magistrates Court 

to boost morale                                           

Core Quality Standards     

scabs who cry a placards weaponised 

on rapid prosecutions hovering roses 

curve in burning above asserting: 

these accoutrements meet human rights guidelines

in the portcullis a Snooper’s Charter 

KCB, QC, pledge:

There’s no room for sulking 

illustrative purposes….illustrative purposes

all the relevant factors into account.

What constitutes ‘a weapon’ ?

& hearts may contest 

yet words are truest, 

said from gathering round its apex, 

it is hard to see how anyone escapes,

as night entwines in web door creaks, 

a eulogising speech as it breaks against teeth

streamlining statutories 

the Knight of the Realm,, follows codes 

of conduct granular work ethic, 

Sir the State You are Britain’s Fairest Man

on the bonnet of a Jaguar 

green emerald is a lawful you 

forming part of the Royal Convoy