No poet can hope to understand the nature of poetry unless he has had a vision of the Naked King crucified to the lopped oak, and watched the dancers, red-eyed from the acrid smoke of the sacrificial fires, stamping out the measure of the dance, their bodies bent uncouthly forward, with a monotonous chant of: 'Kill! kill! kill!' and 'Blood! blood! blood!'
Graves
16.07.25
Tiny sigils prophetic birds
career developments & personal aspirations
redirected towards humiliation—Catullus
basted in votives into my softened
mouth for only hope turns like you said
a metallic grating sound in the head
its the scar in the air & how can
we best support you with this? postdrome
a steadicam of politically
bullish anti-violence homilies no
a stripped back idea of Britishness
crackling on premium-grade gravel
under the wheels of company bosses
The Rolls Royce Silver Spirit
like the 80’s & now? reader
no Bennite solution
the strangler of cries flag girl
my friends are beginning to die
& hide gloms of golden saxifrage
its requiesce fading purlieus
stickling in the dream stations,
the paraboloid roof plunges
glass & concrete miming
the detritus of our lives
into an upturned ark
the imagined version of the
1% as architectural design, bed of grey
all people outside are now dead as voices
from near silence under kissing buildings,
landscrapes your hands & face
forget yesterday's unkindness
its the heritage version history today
embedded bas-relief shit
buried centuries our little gaps
of sedge to mouth made hollow
a wealth of sickness streaming
the past enjoyable light
on Kings Cross road
at night on small infill sites
this linecharts prophecy
HS2 straw warnings
Rotes Wien cannot prevent
blood skeleton career winning
skinfoils endthwart & the rockfoils
overlong welts sinking emptier
& shallower anachronisms
