Green grow’th the holly
So doth the ivy
Though winter blasts blow na’er so high
Green grow’th the holly
Gay are the flowers
Hedgerows and ploughlands
Under the White paper the air blurs
the landscrapes pulls away dead chainlink,
boathouse nomads
vanish under variable sills
under marine primer
ditch the keycard,,
ditch the key fob,,
ditch the key chain,,
British moral life is installed on Teams,
Chat & videoconferencing, file storage
drawn from the same
gas as the peeling skins plea bitten
the underclass discussed on mumsnet
Do we have one? Why?
Who or what is responsible?
When did it all go wrong?
Answers on a postcard
the routed ends of hope
disowning old parasite gates
micro segregation Marina developments
to sugar the pill,
—the clerical, sales, construction workforce,
drivers and machine operators
I cannot live its black spot anymore,
cannot linger in its blank tinge
wharfages careering frontier spirited
Russell Group firebrands
in momentums return
to the land tradefloor with prat jaw
crocked on zero-tolerance braces,
Rosewood Calf Leathers
to kick me down this gangway
job pissed town is yours in a sports bag:
'We’re trying to move people
from a benefit dependency culture
to an enterprise culture'
slowly dies a light in Quango fortified,
stock-brick-clad ground-floor blast walls
scratching the edge forevermore &
The post-Good
Era Two is more optimistic, its spec
boasting holes made to see out of
‘I want to be the best. I want to do my own thing.
I want to excel. I want to go to the gym.
I want to study business law.
I want to see West End shows.
I want business sponsorship.’
of tearing. ON. nothing
gruel city shilled nights in
glue of self,, red wrapped tunics skies
around our heads steel maiden
holding up a ring,
or an arch, or something
you go beyond taires of wasteland
at what scale, and of which nature?
pitted with illuminated water features
a fountain’s droplets
over the hum of a not-too-distant
business district winding down
plastic art planted in concrete
woven into and circle
a twelve-foot anchor
drenched in treacle-like gloss paint;
on one leg burrowed in
annuities, solstices, sanctuaries, woes
my heart is dumb brassic
Stupid working class Kent scum
wiping off at the diadem floodlights
around dead fens being dead
the midnight purpling hue
a more vengeful revanchism
remains emptied pockets,
tough on, a spitting yob burnished
tongue into sharp relief
its 10-point code of conduct struck
down & forbade
a group of beggars
& the dictates by squeegee
winos ‘mole people’
chew the fat
footloose brig adders
wriggle out in virid pilule
