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Saturday, 25 January 2025

Prospero & Ariel (draft & unfinished)

 


I love unbroken people: men. 

The kind who have no problems; 

the kind who are self-contained, 

powerful Table Talks in air rarified interiors 

authoritarian personality,,

the island is as a state of mind, 

palingenetically you hear yourself 

negatively capable in the Expansion 

of the Visitor Economy, roadblocks 

multilevel decks surmount 

mounds feeding air soil sinks 

half shattered hearts 

that fed; for what we stand for, 

for what we said

a Flag in the sand? 

quad rolling, vomiting in corners ; no

& no there be no Paradise, 

no 72 virgins no you cannot burn 

Men-in Gear to rename anything ever again, 

no mouth crammed slides toward 

the hole of the edge becomes suddenly 

beautiful through lattice, 

Diseased Community Centres,  

Councillors leaking in a swell of trails

for what remains is a beating heart 

a single name occasionally transient song,, 

to now sing on some blighted crop 

while pale white burnt crosses 

lay in my hand for children 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 a 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,

part of the terror 

Hows that. British standards. 

British democracy their so-called rights above

those of young men who risked & sacrifice. 


Kill your own. 

in your walls are names

who recorded the sentence of death 

of the Yaxley family

this is my flood of choice

enhanced serenity

of a drone pilot from itself alone

I saw them disappear

at the intersection topology gone

& forced to wiping off 

at the diadem floodlights 

like criminals of everyday life, 

screaming but it drops off 

the front page to watch at home

sans reveries stars are imminent 

a dream covered nothing 

the marching procession

of all clusters gleaming impunity 

splits into reappearances

as this circulation repatriates 

in two immaculate halves; to make 

one ‘Us’ a ‘We’ use my eyes 

they don’t estrange or flail alone

but strengthen permission to 

their cries would change 

on all fours block territory 

& place, a free man

 hanging from a broken pledge  

the 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 rubbing 

“Christian Patrols” Miss Britannia,

Indigenous People’s Day

a storm cloud above 

the vastness of night

where nothing can hurt 

digilantism Wolfpack Hunters

 & The Guardians of the North ,

local residents safe & sound, in stone 

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 

the Peado’s arrangements

glaring backside 

the FLA in the morning, 

under clamps of heat 

its common boiling

out virid pilule dream seedbeds 

coming over the hills,, coming in the morning

fence collapsing blond soldiers,

forehead glowerings 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 and a shit joke.