Witenestaple
Cath Kidston blitz spirit down
a hand in September, Cold & Sick
with a paperweight
as my groin the AQA papers fold
my consenting snaps braid-pins
with a naive tongue blunted & dumb
wrens to offer me a home or shelter
between Beech & Red Oak
forgotten in the forest of Blean,
back-breed flags gone morbid
to fetishes what hard choices
go muddling through right now
alone cold on a sofa watching
Little Miss Sunshine fondled to fetal position,
my Teenage pulse bedspread
holes to textile Provence Rose
Pink tines filled with shame & touch,
a human warmth in the small of your back
as the smell of Ilford multigrade developer
makes the latent image visible
under the Chin of Headmaster
Rare Peppermint Green Metallic Jaguar
my life hangs sucking
from bonnets twisted searches
its Pale Dark Stone interior.
I am your nighttime Buser,
I am your furred Menstrual poke
I am your house undulled
I am your swooning Learning lips wet
to your toes, your past-loves blotted out,
I am all these things to Suck & sole
my young blood pricks tarnished places
saved from bed-wet dawns
& leather truncheons,
saved from loves death its earliest companion,
saved from Mothers Breath
be cleaned in lugworms,
whelks quantity of roses & leaves
& bows what else chokes cairns
of white posts, Pederasty
& English Sans serif
smug on mugs & tea towels
you accumulate in Polka-Dot tins
wear your hair in a victory roll
& sew a cushion cover over
rare Heath Fritillary butterflies
on Thanet Way Shingle,
the songs of Nightingales
phoning Childline on Sunday,
in a thicket of sores
YOUR COURAGE
to come forward in affluent villages.
Margate
Aged 15, x’ed the patted divan
from the converge of Swale council
to the Death of Serpents tail,
the laurel over hard mortar &
Sanctuary Lodge is laminated
with CV’s on piloti buried podiums
mixed pounded pebbles
with scrim coinages & TC’s
near Garlinge dirge.
Nothing really is nothing here
its cranked glazing calcined
DREAMLAND soft in asbestos
holding aloft all the
Stephen Christopher Yaxleys
like old panoply of grimoires
& We Are Inside A Regeneration Project,
its Formica Stagecoach Souter
gleams it’s finale FALSE TEETH
on Nayland Rock Shelter,
in stage whispers facedown
eating floret patrons
with pilled lunar shards
to be nowhere.
Miles & Barr Boys swilling linctus
acres of briefcases & toeboxing
Paul Weller's all shirebussed,
tucked & milkfed from Mum to Bed,
dropping Bollinger after Bollinger
on natural PowerFloat Concrete floors,
Estate Agency Award Ceremony
is my nature, & I chant advocates names
like an incant over cockle table rot
new seawind hard creamed
what beckons archfiends
name the gilt-hearted RIBA Architects
maker of maps, gutter of towns,
as Arlingtons floodlights a failsafe,
the meaning demicurls a clique
cash coloured chubs New Jerusalem,
Skincare Branded
Victorian Bathing Machines
in Farrow Ball Terracotta Rich Colours
the body gyres whisperless prannets
encircle the cold of this crap flat
& coke starved noses harropdown
bloody staircases in spastic crosses
paid by Canters of Tory England,
‘soil taken from it to any place whatsoever
kills snakes there’ holm-oaked
inverted the petal torch is theta
said Thanet council spokesman.
Remmesgate
The Boulder gathers as it rolls downhill
whilst a commodities trader drinks
Ruddles out of a toby jug
the cliffs of England Stand
where the party banner tow lines
becomes wrapped around your throat
and you go down covered in mayo
your ‘peoples army’ with garden hoses
are too slow and I’ll do it again
from the largest wetherspoons
in the world.
Sidyngborne
For to mourn here each day the Tudor Rose
is 99p, and the King loses nothing
on clay substrate sinking again
midstream in dead grass
with wrecked boats where nothing lives
from Recreation Way to Green Porch Close
Holy Trinity Church sometimes in grasswort
& golden samphires,
for protection against
the hard reed bed look out at the Swale
under the new EU directive is brown-red
and the unpeopled estate is the mud of UK paper,
where the Fleet Streets conspired
near Ridham Docks
known by their fruits
of Euromix concrete.
O watch ward over veil at Christmas 1454
as the topsoil yields a silver penny
that the mad gene carried
from France, and containerboard a red knot
on Roman walk badly paved
the whistling postman
not from France but from
bourne stands sometimes sits
but does not beg for it is charity
and he is old and stays in the memory
like the Battle of Britain or a Christmas fire.
I would walk the creek
near pipes of Milton Pipes
anon out the earth and not say nothing
I would go to The Saxon Shore Way
formerly Church Marshes Country Park,
formerly a disused landfill site
to Toy Town stand in middle of palm tree
roundabout or with pylon in the middle
and ask, blind men where am I?
under venerated springs,
or a post industrial pilgrimage?
and said to song as a place of inns
& bore most where it ought not to bear at all,
&it did not bear at all where it ought
to have been borne most
