Council Memory Trench & BPIHW

 

BPIHW

A crap misaim bottled of sable 

colour wired together 

in clop of blondish tuff

asking for dodo meat again outside 

for old times sake an obsolete light 

stills the silk jackets 

toenails to the sun 

purlin in defect blat pril 

the sweet air, wherein my joys 

are a chest pain 

under the dropping floors 

its satyr chorus of imperium 

hard-ons this soil 

is grace and favour like eaves 

shaded long in a psychodrama 

hell submissive loyal to

portfolio marquee screening 

the kindred grandezza in

nacreous snail trail all popped 

white-collar clubmen 

moue in tandem toby jugged

ranine dinner speech  

muzzle the coffers  

mine hence not yours  

Council Memory Trench 

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 my words red

held up by a friend 

there are Steinways to follow 

seraphs on Brooke street,

it's the colour 

between thawed gurgles 

that really matters

& London is the centre of wicker fence panels 

its river territory is broken  

the last firebreaks hanging

under Blackfriars Bridge 

to starry rushes chainfated

what deposit slot rolled 

my cobblestones all glom faced, 

outside Automatic Hydraulic 

anti-terror bollards  

in the event of a loss of power

non-sector chaperones arrive

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 schisms humming 

on Laws balustrade.

Hello, Is this? 

Asset Management Limited 

with shining sleeves scraped 

from every pore 

& cost nothing

I lay it upon its roof 

a burning day into your eyes 

the final stone of the final plaza,

in every living 

the public-space gurus 

lock the doors 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   

collared demotic 

plinth of post-Blairism

now this is Bang at Sportcity 

the Plateau, the Field, the Garden agenda  

a gala of dystopian domes 

Logan's Run & cement blocks 

empty man-creditors,

of my desire for the wrecking

in multi-use pause areas

on the lips a Levelling Up, 

a song for rent & village’s culture 

the economic pie,

everywhere & for everyone, 

not re-slicing it about root & branch 

Teesworks in Redcar, & sells it 

these new clusters

will be our Fourth Industrial Revolution

Foundries vehicles in Sunderland headwinds

in the past spread fin through Freeports,

Enterprise Zones & the Super-deduction 

weaving a thread for Investment Big Bang

wreath powered this small 

& weak dreaming fields gutted  

on the background to work 

New Classical macroeconomics 

New Classical tiny glass beads

new satin finish logscales 

peerless white limestone 

of chlorine ducts or some flaming urn 

& no drinking water, a sabre of light

filigree lightness is anodyne 

& as low as possible 

over the tidal Thames

every child to thrive

these decoy vents feed you air, 

off seed cathedrals & noon-marked 

monocoques hollowed dusks 

developments sequence producing 

in the wreck of our anti-ferrules 

White paper get scratched inside 

the wet brain 

Werkstatt from the swilling 

‘ideas engine’ Stanhope PLC 

a field of glass, windswept 

lottery cash enhances existing settlements, 

gladdens the eye &

lifts the heart in Milton Keynes

seeing futuristic housing prototypes 

narrowing (Mission Nine) 

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, 

the White Paper

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 

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’ 

& they’ll be back again tomorrow 

Butter Pyramid at Kupfter

 

Visions of MacConglinne

A vision that appeared to me, 

An apparition wonderful I tell to all:

A lardy coracle all of lard

Within a port of New-milk 

Loch, Up on the World's smooth sea.

We went into the man-of-war,

Twas warrior-like to take the road

O'er ocean's heaving waves.

Our oar-strokes then we pulled

Across the level sea,

Throwing the sea's harvest up,

Like honey, the sea-soil.

The fort we reached was beautiful, 

With works of custards thick,

Beyond the loch.

New butter was the bridge in front, 

The rubble dyke was wheaten white,

Bacon the palisade.

Stately, pleasantly it sat,

A compact house and strong.

Then I went in:

The door of it was dry meat, 

The threshold was bare bread,

Cheese curds the sides.

Smooth pillars of old cheese, 

And sappy bacon props

Alternate ranged;

Fine beams of mellow cream, 

White rafters- real curds,

Kept up the house.

Behind was a wine well, 

Beer and bragget in streams,

Each full pool to the taste.

Malt in smooth wavy sea, 

Over a lard-spring's brink

Flowed through the floor.

A loch of pottage fat

Under a cream of oozy lard

Lay 'tween it and the sea.

Hedges of butter fenced it round, 

Under a blossom of white-mantling lard,

Around the wall outside.

A row of fragrant apple-trees, 

An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom,

Between it and the hill.

A forest tall of real leeks, 

Of onions and of carrots, stood

Behind the house.

Within, a household generous, 

A welcome of red, firm-fed men,

Around the fire.

***

Wheatlet, son of Milk-let

Son of Juicy Bacon, 

Is mine own name. 

Honeyed Butter roll

Is the man’s name

That bears my bag.

Haunch of Mutton 

Is my Dog’s name, 

Of lovely leaps. 

Lard, my wife

Sweetly smiles

Across the kale-top

Cheese-curds, my daughter, 

Goes around the spit, 

Fair is her fame. 

Corned Beef, my son 

Whose mantle shines

Over a big tail. 

Savour of Savours 

Is the name of my wife’s maid:

Morning-early

Across New-Milk Lake she went. 

Beef-Lard, my steed, 

An excellent stallion

That increases studs, 

A guard against toil 

Is the saddle of cheese 

On his back. 

When a cheese-steed is sent after him

Rapid his course, 

Fat…is on his ribs, 

exceeding all shapes. 

A large necklace of delicious 

Cheese curds

Around his back, 

His halter and his traces all

Of fresh butter. 

His bridle with its reins of fat

In every place. 

The horse cloth of tripe with its

sausage, Tripes are in its Hooves. 

Egg-horn is my bridle boy

Before going to a meeting with death

My pottage tunic around myself

Everywhere, 

of tripe with its smell 

of uncooked food.