Friday 8 March 2024

Yaxley (revised draft ending)


A rogue wind detaches ,

a grey imposter mending

to England’s heroes in pseudocommando 

with a leakage at the Western Jet Foil site 

at Tug Haven there is more ash now

surrounding incendiary devices

circles to patch all over the forecourt

heads bow in solemn silence. 

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. 

Seppuku & here stands the effigy

of our noblest soldiers, 

& there is more of ash now

of tears & sorrow 

it grows over their graves; Look--

i can feel it coming in the air tonight

O lord, can you feel it encroaching 

over in the rain to love again

grooming gangs,,  a keynote speech

to the touching of our skins, 

& to open up to heavens sent 

indiscriminate petrol bombs attached 

to fireworks non-christian children to contempt 

in the doorways in the end 

a collages of white faces,  

on volatile cocktails 

see what happens, 

to its own breathing pattern

& reproach the people who allowed such things to be, 

& not bend the knee 

& not do ere long change the sheets in bloodrain,, 

an aggressive tug 

in the Mitie holding area, 

a national picture behind 

Quilliams you flourish 

in the concierge  marquee purge: remaining; 

on some form filling hate-filled grievance

under the greenwood tree, 

Yaxley's like me & say:    

– 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.

A hole it should be so  

I really, really don’t care about the skin

on those people

& 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 closed line 

a confounded soul, 

to reinstate hereditaries just below 

the ground to ribboned daisies 

see what happens now is 

put to ghastly music

drones & clicks, 

wings on their tunics

at the empty marquee 

you look in the mirror your 

& ask yourself what is a Yaxley in contempt? 

cramped whitey

over nearby drop zone 

Mitie induction pump

out through the ‘Whitey Hole’, 

as it was quickly dubbed,

breaking their noses or teeth 

on the opposite edge

if they got the exit manoeuvre wrong 

as the slipstream grabbed their legs.

The fuel burns above the left hand chest pockets 

of their tunics

& smocks, as per   

clinical standards

a phone 

refused with no explanation.

A convoy of lorries to Whitey Hole,

like the air its crosses wraiths & strays 

& the onset of incorporeal hereditaments 

straight to the heart of reality:

a father inside the heart of the young

an escheat of flickers closer, 

stilled in a breach for holding 

these faces that were thought to show? 

O Whitey Hole,   now on your own, 

beneath the surface of a mutating  cover, 

or alibi mud British mud,

 a beating heart

its raging quiver in our chests

& here comes the machete, 

aimed at your neck

‘…forgive them their trespasses…’  

acceptable in ‘their’ British state.

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? 

the working class,,   

its ceremonial death passes 

into constant internal whisperings rooftops

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

 it daily scabs to frigid £20.00 ceases; 

O in my life, I am much happier now, 

going to sleep with a smile on my face! at night the ends   

that rages, the name that stuck had trackers ebbing all round

I get a phone call from Hel (actual name), 

known only by a nickname alone, ‘Nemesis’.

I know, a bit out there but Hel was a constant.

A lot of people only wanted to be known by nicknames

or pseudonyms for understandable reasons. 

Remembering that raging mob? 

hurled insults,

I was nearing the end of my tether

when the governor put me in the front of all the action.

The marching procession of all of clusters 

gleaming all for Lee Rigby

They were all absolutely, entirely peaceful.

We may have acted on a whim—a Yaxley whim usually—

in response to being offended at some piece 

of politically correct madness or other, to stop the falling line. 

This was an ad hoc street movement 

in the purest sense of the word.

This wasn’t a rampaging mob baying for blood, 

to get dogs out demanding revenge 

on the people who did it 

,like the dull thud 

of a narwhal tusk is real. Look,,  

the Gower was dogged 

& burnt the swastika flag, 

bad for business.

We-need-to-show-more-love-and-tolerance capitulation. 

A real surprise, come judgment day. 

‘Where’s this Yaxley, where’s that Yaxley?’

 a patriot. I love my country. My family


JUST being ‘me’ continues to be a problem. 

O & I recite these words! Everyone was watching.        


  'the bloodline is MIG Down'  

a brush at the heart predated

scooped it up off the floor 

& brought it to another Yaxley 

by dead light

to enquire accursed 

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 war dead

a poppy burning chitin. War dead.

Ripping up paving slabs again

it hurts,  like full  of  sand. War dead.

A plague in the middle of town, 

its chalk climes to apply 

a Yaxley cure. 

Women & children 

baying for blood, 

British Legionnaires 

baying for blood,

members of the community

baying for blood,

& 'I'm the enemy of the State', 

short of living in a cave, 

or having major plastic surgery 

& wearing platform shoes,  

I don’t mind admitting

the natural consequences 

of switching off 

from being ‘me’ a true Yaxley, 

like a badge of honour

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. 

So I stepped to confront the weasels 

gagged down the death threats, 

the baying for my blood for their evils 

                not enough if you ask me! not just the groomers to blame

        the people who knew & looked away

        council managers, social workers,

they should all pay

        should lose their pensions in a day!

Only then can I go on Holiday 

on the Straits of Calais!

I mean it! I really mean it, Us being harassed, our teeth! 

My family even went to the lawyer who represented Jon Venables, the lad who murdered the Liverpool toddler, Jamie Bulger. He could argue the case of someone who battered a two-year-old to death, but he wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole. It seems that human rights only apply to a select group of people. Our teeth, the police, the sirens going full blast. 

I walked outside & & the police were there 

for me, & 

done with bowing & scraping 

to busybody do-gooders, 

to looking over my shoulder 

every time I tweet something mildly offensive 

to a Home Counties communist. 

Hows that. British standards. 

British democracy

their so-called rights above

those of young men who risked & sacrifice. 

I really, really don’t care about the colour 

of those people’s skin

or the nature of their religion. 

but maybe if I say it enough times

it might sink into some thick skulls eventually  

as opposed to wanting them to burn in hell 

or be ambushed by the metropolitan liberal elite. 

O, so well, the softest hand  take my mind away 

fist sized a price for having me  

a Yaxley life,,  I was still standing

& free to speak my mind. 


The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling

For you but not for me:

For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling,

They've got the goods for me.

Oh! Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling?

Oh! Grave, thy victory?

The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling

For you but not for me.

The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling

For you but not for me:

For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling,

They've got the goods for me.

Oh! Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling?

Oh! Grave, thy victory?

The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling

For you but not for me.