I love unbroken people
the kind who have no problems
the kind who are self-contained
Table Talks in air rarified interiors
authoritarian personalities,,
Island State of Mind
palingenetically you hear yourself
negatively capable in the
Expansion of the Visitor Economy,
roadblocks multilevel decks
hearts that died for
for what we said
a Flag in the sand?
quad rolling in corners ; no
& there be no Paradise,
no 72 virgins & you cannot burn
Men-in Gear to rename everything
Diseased Community Centres
Councillors leaking in a swell of trails
what remains a beating heart
a single name a transient song,,
to sing on some blighted crop
pale white crosses lay in my hand
for children for the rest of you,
which leaks & your buttocks quivering,
the most beautiful sound
is Cliff Richard’s correct speech
caked arses
tired out in rings of shite
enter the pantheon
of folk music
enter at the end of night
I do not apologise for having a problem with an alien ideology, an alien way of living and thinking that is being given a free reign to infect the country of mine and my children’s birth.
No one consulted me on it.
Did they consult you?
They certainly didn’t ask our children.
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
Hows that?
British standards.
British democracy
their so-called rights above
those of young men who
risked & sacrificed.
Kill your own,
in your walls are names
who recorded the sentence of death
this is my flood of choice
enhanced serenity
of a drone pilot
& forced to wiping off
at the diadems floodlights
like criminals of everyday life,
screaming but it drops off
the front page
to watch at home
sans reveries
& stars are imminent
& dream covered nothing
the marching procession
of all clusters gleaming impunity
splits into reappearances
as this circulation repatriates
in two immaculate halves;
& place, a free man
hanging from a name stuck
at night to gaze out at the
doxed crepuscular crusade light
under millennial woes
pictures of little children soldiers
for you to lay under
“Christian Patrols” Miss Britannia,
Indigenous People’s Day
a banner drop on the A49
a storm cloud above
the vastness of this night
where nothing can hurt
digilantism Wolfpack Hunters
& The Guardians of the North ,
local residents safe & sound,
in the Sanctuary by the wellhead
the ewe does not bite it buries
& my companion Boatswain
holds the ladder to lump hammer
the lintel & PROPAGANDA
salvaged by Spidermans
purpled flour bombs in the sky
for BBC PAEDOS
I watch on BigChut & Gab
Braveheart Fight Club
don’t belong to the realm of fantasy
time to go, noose all
Peado’s arrangements
glaring backside
the FLA in the morning,
under clamps of heat
its common boiling
virid pilule dream
seedbeds coming over the hills,,
fence collapsing blond soldiers,
coming over the hills,,
forehead glowering 4k Epic Reds
& I was wearing a CP Company coat,
which was hooded with goggles—
I looked like a frog.
And I was joking, saying ‘ribbit, ribbit’.
A load of beer & a shit joke.
