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.