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Tuesday 2 April 2024

Council Trench Memory (draft/for Speights)

 


Money and rain belong together. 

The weather itself is an index of the state of this world. 

Bliss is cloudless, knows no weather.

There also comes a cloudless realm of perfect goods, 

on which no money falls. 

Walter Benjamin 


As many people as possible should be encouraged

to become owners. We must make everyone a shareholder 

in the concern called ‘Great Britain Limited’. 

Pope Leo XIII 



One leg in annuities, solstices, 

sanctuaries, woes 

breakthrough my heart is dumb brassic

in wiping off at the diadem floodlights 

around dead fens being dead. 

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 

a more vengeful revanchism remainder 

winos ‘mole people’ footloose 

brig adders wriggle out

in virid pilule seedbed

morsicatio buccarum sans reveries 

& you work in the midnight purpling hue 

that tips the stars to lug imminent

a 10-point code of conduct 

dictates by the squeegee 

a dream covered nothing 

foaming its boiling common

the Urban White paper Urban Renaissance

BioMed Centre identikit corporate detailing 

the quoin metal black bile 

& actual slogans around our heads 

into a buzzword of tearing. 

ON. nothing Londinium vapour 

wrenched quiet 

to my scrying door plate, 

post paralysis hands 

drivers vandal-proof lights O

construction workforce, mixed-use 

the sugar pill, —the clerical sales,

to Marina developments micro segregation 

blood fielding

in treacle-like gloss paint; 

plastic art planted in concrete 

business district winding down

the Era Two is more optimistic, 

its spec boasting holes a ‘Transversal Space’,  

The post-Good

remains in a Quango fortified, 

stock-brick-clad ground-floor blast walls

scratching the edge forevermore

Russell Group firebrands 

in spirited Rosewood Calf Leathers 

12 stars over my eye 

a technical ripstop

red wrapped Made in Italy 

Cocoon shape pulls away 

dead chainlink landscrape

the holly so the ivy grows 

outside Langham Place 

sans consentement  

in Corsham stone 

the nuptials of god & god the Stone 

beneath volutes 

Justice 4 Fathers Spidermans 

half suspended with a daughter’s guitar

‘In the Name of The Father’ by Bono, 

the Trafalgar Groves, the Victory Footprint

Link sculpture with its panoramic viewfinder

In what kind of country is this?

class fatalised Bowellism 

the sick rose winedrunk 

on a broadloom Pushkin floor 

threshed words red held up by a friend 

for there are Steinways to follow 

& seraphs on Brooke street,

it's the colour 

between thawed gurgles 

that what really matters

& London is the centre 

of wicker fence panels 

its river territories broken  

the last firebreaks hanging

under Blackfriars Bridge 

to starry rushes chainfated

what deposit slot rolled 

my cobblestones glom faced, 

outside Automatic Hydraulic 

anti-terror bollards  

in the event of a loss of power

non-sector chaperones 

allow the ingress of cool air, 

with warm air flowing out 

through two tall vents forming wings 

that mirror each other, 

public & private bokes 

all set to chrome 

it’s underlight schism hums 

Laws balustrade is this? 

Asset Management Limited 

shining sleeves scraped 

from every pore & costs nothing

laid upon its roof burning day 

into your eyes rising 

the stone of the plaza,

in every living sign 

a public-space guru locked in

Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton 

rooms screening  

Live Below The Line

& what will you do Alfie Deyes 

with the cadres of flashbacks, 

reliving of the downside

of nostalgic austerity 

for 20 minutes 

teeth cleaned on tassel loafers 

readily circling each crutch

you know you have to die for a rebirth?  

Cauldron burning London's   

collar plinthed Blair’s demotic glades 

now this is Bang at Sportcity 

the Plateau, the Field, the Garden agenda  

a gala of dystopian domes Logan's Run

of my desire for wrecking

in multi-use pause areas frozen stars! 

on the lips a Levelling Up, 

a song for rent & village culture 

the economic pie everywhere 

& for everyone, not re-slicing 

Teesworks in Redcar, 

& sell it these new clusters 

will be our Fourth Industrial Revolution 

Foundries vehicles in Sunderland 

headwinds in the past spread thin  

through Freeports, Enterprise Zones 

& the Super-deduction 

weaving a thread for Investment 

New Classical macroeconomics 

New Classical tiny glass beads

 powered this small 

& weak dreaming fields 

the background to work 

new satin finish logscales 

peerless white limestone 

of chlorine ducts a flaming urn 

& no drinking water 

for this sabre of light,

this filigree lightness is anodyne 

& as low as possible 

over the tidal Thames

every child to thrive

on decoy vent fed air, 

off seed cathedrals noon-marked 

monocoques hollowed to dusk 

the development sequence 

scratched inside wet paper brain 

Werkstatt the swilling ‘ideas engine’ 

Stanhope PLC a field of glass, 

windswept Thomas

,, your mother’s bead expertise, 

voluminous lottery cash enhances &

lifts the heart in Milton Keynes

seeing futuristic housing 

prototypes (Mission Nine) 

Workplace Mediation Specialist 

hangs a heavy chain over my heart  

your team knows why 

& takes my eyes out 

explore a National Landlord Register  

at the Construction Expo 

Five Angel Heads Comprise

the biosphere & how to die in it? 

(Mission Ten) new County Deals 

devolved administrations, 

sitting on the 

laver of eclipsed arches 

all human malevolence 

is planned orange light 

porphyry stone stand on the backs 

it’s meaningless orange light 

porphyry stone 

& the loggia curls quiet out composite 

social typology bonded & elevated again, 

cleaned spurriers to mercer yoke

& no passage for foot 

in the shadow of the new Cathedral, 

the paying metronauts 

‘I came here to swim in the highest pool in Europe

& I’ll be back again tomorrow’ 

plugging austerities in the wren 

binds a midnight tabulation 

over spitting concrete 

the drills, the controlled explosions,

the corporation 2001

O wedded nodes the diminutions 

& you eat them in the Giant Needery

little britain with wards tested

gladi/haemophilia + binos 

evenings golden hour draped 

black velvet above winged griffin ramps 

(Mission Twelve) the shallow end of Bullism

in your head Nomura 

& Merrill Securities metals

King Charles III, 

finds it pleasing heritage markers 

now shaped into a grab-rail 

to come to terms with the view. 


Misneach declined breads 

outside Selfridges 

too low to climb for rain 

non-negotiable go behind white walls, 

so gangplank in balls of moss 

to uncancellable sandpits

at the end of every accused finger

of my tongue the briefings of your lineage 

& summerhouses incomplete

listen my heart is begging for friends 

of starres right on time

at the EDGE OF NOWHERE 

is the Poetry Society tag you forgot

for death is death 

until you’re Inside this poem

like a poet.


In a suntrap & rising not re-slicing 

in those places that where lagging;

in those places that are weakest;

in those places that have been lost & 

it went with a Shopping Centre 

of human bird noises 

coming out the masseuse chairs 

in chloroform soaked life packets 

singing to dead thrushes 

& Moorgate rains ethanol fluid

turns the mourning out of earth

staked out for 

scatological rites of all nations 

under corporate umbrellas 

staked out for flesh of welded indices 

staked out for small pillboxes of 

faith curls in ludic circles 

NCP London clay  

bellum mouth runs 

the deregulated Square Mile 

Roman city boundaries its ‘Corporation’ 

65,000 cubic metres of soil taken 

for Bronze long-limbed hares 

& CLC veneers 

this is worlds impenetrable edge 

gets buried under Carillon I can see it,

like a charred linnet buff

burning for burnings sake 

nightstars cloudnines

IF THERE’S A HELL, 

I’VE LIVED TO SEE IT

jack-knifed the bend of a hockey stick

elected representatives arcane

Common Councilmen,

milk-paled Aldermen, sallow sheriffs

& Lords from Medieval guilds

a jasmine flower stuck behind your ears; 

air-kissing the profoundest carrion

cerulean Amytheus cut vitrified 

British Transport Police Mosaics 

ceramic broke by downdraft 

where the fountains were removed 

The Concrete Society gone underground 

brand engagement 

platforms annulled basking spots 

in the Outernet incopads gauze 

Tricorn blood makes no noise 

Paco Rabanne 1 Million walk-in JumboLand

where I ate your withered tie 

with Amarone & vetched Gillespies 

poured poppies down my briefs 

at the Naval & Military Club 

the Long Bar sangfroid bombed 

transmetropolitan 

Pink Gin runs out my mouth welt,, 

the cities shoulder burns a 

breadcrumb trail piss sunk air

parsed of national jeremiads

ancient corner ghost-catching spectre

& occult thieves on the premises 

of the Federationist League 

the cyanosis of The Wall ginger division 

League of Empire Loyalists 

in a fugue state the greater & emptier lease

compresses regeneration scheme 

to our stolen municipal chairs

where am I to curse at the light? 

in the blanched retains

living rake thin on low resolution mirrors  

access thresholds injured

slow curdle wet-winged 

brooding the starlings 

of newly widened centre arches 

& the pavement of City Roads 

its agoraphobia, forged epistle flax, 

watch as they start carving up 

the Ossulton Estate 

double-helix crick shaped, 

the function room into flats

& 275 tonnes of  Westmorland Green slate

painted Vanta black.