Thursday 21 December 2023

Witenestaple, Margate, Remmesgate, Sidyngborne (draft/unfinished)



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


to come forward in affluent villages.  


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.


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.


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