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Monday, 10 March 2025

LEAVING POLAND (09/03/25)

 


Tads in Hot Weather


Opulent snakes and ladders

on which bullion with ice 

pillow gets kippered

on merit gutless peeling in virtue,

a bouquet of life the lawn 

decibel noise reduction panels &

the doors are closed,

squinting gables through premium 

petrol curls up a secluded Ponte Giardino

and down with our enemies rest on 

cash in chub stained dawn ruses 

you can't chasten a flower-filled consort 

of fair ideals the subordinates keep

keening on some cordoned fence 

crusted in doubloons and trackie bums 

poor bleeders piss off and die

like a rat in the rubbish, 

gilts fléches in Teutoburg Forest

as Autumn of Euro-Ketchup 

nothingness & never today 









Giddy Carousel



Airbrushed minarets sacred lands

comment is free at the 

White Nationalist Grievance Party

to stick a knife in you 

the circumference of me, 

or hilt point cursing the Cenotaph

dragged under martenside

in Oakham rain shining purple acetate

for that which blows up your wife & kids

gets buried in flowers 

I call it Floodgate, 

marches to be kindred 

this islands country of 

biscuit tins Cherry-Gardens

enmities against well-placed bombs 

evil tears in Angstzonen 

Lionhearts & their lone halos

the parvenus nouveau black shirts

past to future militias 

decayed Britannia Unchained 

& the ridges near Albion Gates 

O pickering to see Gadarene

or Pegida drinking tea; 

God saves its Overton window

poor soldier prostrates 

anti-Blimps closing ranks 

off this mortised rim 

for you & me, Royal British Legion 

Poppy Cross Wreath Type D 

& the final fatal tree 

Fusilier confit counter nisus 

death passes inviolate 

& estuary plant life yobends 

buried cubic grey for the protest movement 

to see again & love again 

& dinghies poached & what Yaxley broke

under its silhouette British speck

indelicate & your Habeas Corpus

staked fireproof letterboxes 

‘justice’ warped softly dead

called out sacrifice & care

a scrying buzzword tear

from its arms Identity originated here 

a council estate that God saves

Lebensborn e.V. the sun rises straight

to its own breathing payments 

Seppuku myself on Armistice Day 

put it to music & 

the language of groupthink, put it to music

culled from the Third Way handbook

put it to music 

are you proud & not dead?

see the Migs in name but 

instead Yaxleys silhouettes 

here stands the noblest, 

commando in the airfield

soliloquies red pillar nativists pull

a jingle of spurs & 

the crashing of boots at the curb

how much is enough?

How much is nothing scrubbed ?

stiffer than parade-ground disciplines

which gave life, warmth & action, 

a drooping mob’s rosette 

#WeWillNotBeReplaced , 

& horsehair wig blotched heroics 

under stars draught 

gerrymandered white ash now

around the husk perimeter, 

Blood & Honour groupuscules 

a banner drop of burning poppies 

its swooning pile on my breastbone own's 

quite dwelling the world continues

daydreaming over the standing-reserve 

& what falls out? w

omen in veils, 

gathered near a well 

in a small village 

a thousand children 

where whiteness is spectral   

the cadastre sings out

mullah British mullah

& O my heated toes, 

awhile none else might meet 

low near merry Englands woes 

to go & cheer once more at my feet.




I want to see them starving 

the so-called working class, 

Their wages weekly halved 

Their women stewing grass 

When I drive out each morning 

In one of my new suits

I want to see them fawning 

to clean my car and boots 


Phillip Larkin 






For Ray Hill 


I love unbroken people

the kind who have no problems

the kind who are self-contained

Table Talks the air gets rarified again 

authoritarian personalities,,

The Island State of Mind

palingenetically you hear yourself 

negatively decline in the 

Expansion of the Visitor Economy, 

hearts that died for 

for what we said

a Flag in the sand? 

quad rolling in corners ; no

& there will be no Paradise, 

no 72 virgins & you cannot burn 

Men-in Gear to rename everything again

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 

enter the pantheon of folk music 

enter at the end of sleep.  


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. 

No one consulted me on it. 

Did they consult you?


They certainly didn’t ask our children.


Hows that? British standards. 

their so-called rights above

those of young men who 

risked & sacrificed. 


So kill your own, 

in your walls are names

who recorded the sentence of death 

this is my flood of choices

this is 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 namestand 

a 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 

coming over the hills,, 

& 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.