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Thursday, 16 January 2025

For Ray Hill (draft)

 



Yaxley barbs on any Ray Hills

unprovoked I am not allowed to live here

calling on your fingers

I must hear loudly the vetches of headlands 

fall on my body, white cramps my spine what

these vassalages work

I do not know how

I was covered in ice 

& gone suddenly

to their own pathological fantasies 

churned by crooks that had me 

inside half-fraternising 

counter conspiracies against me circling 

of their own stitious worlds subterraneous

cults that polity, protected you

when the underworld emerged 

& dominates the sane into 

the children of the Devil 

the next exorcism I call it...

The Killing of my Person

staked thereupon I take my leave of sanity & 

create ferment, discord, & hostility

the public mind minims the melee

of nameless felonies 

have harnessed them all to task 

Q.E.D watertight little containers immitude 

& the rise of armistices, submissions

have forced the sky to end 

& minds of endless apostasy

yet mine is not sitting by idly, 

for how can evil be passive? 

scheming to create 

new geopolitical units, stealth hybrids? 

on the rim acquis in amongst 

satin rose petals every cell & gene 

the EU devotes all the passionate fervor

of a senile lover who sacrifices

to his lust the ultimate shadow

of an illusory dignity

on every tangled Groupthink 

hauling everything is finally lost

under aegis of unknown 

stoned plighted Morals & Kingdom 

the Strong, the Righteous & Invincibility

to be the minutes of a

secret meeting scrawled     

into palaces & City Walls 

a stock of petrodollars 

fall into my hand like snow

from the counterpane 

if we are not careful

we shall be glad to die

as the skin culture reruins 

& murders all in total predation

discovers its new living hell 

& slander kills my dead name 

dead this not-dying Yaxley in arms, 

that have borne & changed

no less than five times

raging in the morning

marked with a sprig of acacia 

the last of the legitimate street protest groups, 

while the Cultural Marxists have machetes 

in their fucking eyes 

& my insides itch a small fraction 

of this code for the onslaughts of our enemies

inside a poll tax demonology 

a mere night arranged for Darwinism, 

Bookmarks & flesh of pedos glued 

the torpedoes heavier than life itself

monitoring the renege of the press 

in our hands prepares the ground 

the weapons in our hands 

prepares the ground 

limitless merciless vengeance, 

prepares the ground

hatreds & malice

prepares the ground

& it is from us 

that the all-engulfing terror proceeds 

& class struggle sometimes you think

but a broken peril loans 

a version as it guzzles 

precious & horizontal

& do I remember an English society 

in macadamed light a kinder sky! 

of socially engineered dust bytes.