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Tuesday, 16 February 2021
Monday, 15 February 2021
REST BREAKS GROUNDHOG HOLE V
12th of February 2021
7.30 GMT
Joseph Samuel Buckley
Jill Mcknight
Joshua Hart
Roy Claire Potter
John Ryaner
ZOOM
Saturday, 13 February 2021
Friday, 12 February 2021
DIDO HARDING BLEEDING (draft)
DIDO HARDING BLEEDING
OUT:
A STONE
You must live off plenaries in the tiny pip the rental market
is an alternative fact
the idyll of freezing mud its venues in six silhouetted
storied separations we lay deligh-
tfully still in our thousands upward
pissing what is cause over effect?
what is a child infirmary guild?
Answer: a loud scree, Rishi
a mothball belly collapses to
capsule red yearning
and pining I saw feral boys wandering
out the imploded evil box
with cracked heads all reckless with stones
and things like that,
Dido Harding, you see her
after a cyber attack Malware crash button Hepatitis B
or something revealing the details of four million faces that's why
anonymity is sacred and facelessness is sacrifice!
so put the human racecourse within the exclusion zone!
Participant Manfred Loves You
remember like the softest plush toy
ever all biding in planter silk
Homeowner 'watch-it-burn'
in a McDonalds toilet over and over
on Ketamine, acting empathically
Sefton, Horse of the Year
on route to Changing of the Guard
Dido Harding bleeding out a stone
with cards and mints and things like that
those that died were called
Cedric, Epaulette, Falcon, Rochester,
Waterford, Yeastvite and Zara
all this sweetness all in dark outside clipping, we thought
we saw it moving. We had to shoot it
to relieve its suffering the clubhouses have moved again
like we've all got some socialism
inside us and no one has scabies, Dido Harding
there's no misery for good reason
like rocks Dido Harding bleeding out
over Quango our empty white lanyards
all seem to be shrinking through our insides
echo grey are bloodless stones Dido Harding
in the carbine in the ellipse in a-
nything representing a motorcade
of hate you’re still the
same persuasion rick with h-
eart of shrapnel, and we will nev
er die, softly or faintly again
in a rentiers ring-a-rosie at
noon our little empty lanyard dangles
out, Serfton archangel partly swollen,
without blood in a full state kit
we have to exit the vicinity only
real workers can stay on site only
Dido Harding still to come and
we will never tell them, even a
single word picked out of a rose.
Spoken I would rather die than
become a Rose scabbing
from the glasshouse rental market
rocks that flinch for no good reason
I don't care my life is a freezing
asset thawing out sunhats
O up-to-drizzle
off inheritance lets chalk
ourselves to the perma-dorms of
the poor students fuck off
Andrew Neil
is hard as nails hard as faeces
hard as the Labour Party is full of
hearties with dispensaries my factotum is twisting in
all looking out on open heart surgery hot seated
in the HR dept is representing brightness itself
like everything denied to us is flowing through our
Homeowner
I, without an alias
Labour Party fuck off
the sunhats O the sublime O
with lightship O rainstorm like
distinct ideologies never hustled anyone
to death sometimes it feels like there is
nothing we can do about it
underneath a bandstand
Dear Peter John, O.B.E J.C.B
Inside of eaten rent, milquetoast
the corners of black mould gently
scouring loaned iron skillets or a life non-scarce cosied
and out to lunch hasten dock-less nights
leave me
in one of the many Royal Parks
surrounded by swan meat inedible
coughed up tributaries to a palisade care
from bromides the jobless
giblet of gravy of our species the harder
you shake the pack the harder
a FF175BP fridge-freezer makes sense,
on a Sirius rising to wretch polymer
foils its cavity barrier crowns civis of pulped Celotex
and the omnibus pudding boils for hours
unattended so stay put rend this dotage.
Your fault of sweet whips ding-dong a fine divide in net curtains
or neighbouring skyline of cutpurses
snapped up in sub tenure
go down to the regeneration department
on a countless heartbeat fingering
the cool infirmary of municipal socialism,
faked broken patronage
my angiograms in a failed rescue effort and watch
the slenderest margins drop
flake on soaring orphans IMF
with a council tendency support grant
I am catapulted to the event horizon,
Dear Peter John,
A Year in Provence
on winter oranges swilling blood snaps on a pawnbrokers bough
LTD inflated Roman Law it gets milage as A.D
chums blow donee the lot lost in outtage the midnight flicks
cannot bless me an echo chamber. Still
so doors locked quick in eviction time
Apostle Peter John, O.B.E
I was the man injecting drugs into his penis
and it will happen again
under nucleus light gangland spired
spare music deep in a bounty corpora
for tillage of Get Living Now
Parliament House or Dung Heap
Parliament House or Dung Heap
Like Today’s Story of the Shirt
a plateful of sundry wretches
in such a way that they could
only have endured it, but ask
on about villages?
Middlesex and Epping forest
happy people like pilchards in bottom
cask under cook the dome of sky,
nothing is wasted nothing is spoilt
bar frizz salver piss in a pot look on
or hang off spit and ill-blood
even if you have no property
by the nightshirt liniment
yr enjoying the anon?
No actual mention of sausages, however.
Squabbling on a livelihood
I don't much care for beautiful
buildings run over with flowers,
Bastion builds flashing on and off
as ward-mote leads to Garden Bridge™
bibbing in sun before looting scaffold goes up.
Dear Adrian Glasspool,
Last resident we cannot maintain '26 acres of land for one person’.
blood hooked
stack commuter sprawl in w/ broken
statist one by one for flogging on out
down the metropolitan line
mortarboard tradition staggers
to a croupier fireside chewing
nothing much but embers
of prole-whispers
ROMEO Y JULIETA
Gives us bad chests solidarity
comrades signing off for lack
of cap touch to the very cleanest
of beautiful souls earldom starves the fiend
in modest deliberation;
a charred linnet buff burning for burnings sake
tend sideways for attrition of One Market
denominator pierrot on
true-hearted News Corp drawbridge it simply is
what shape our bananas have got to be,
and all that kind of thing or
a high-leviathan foisted arbitrage
like my gaffer's yonder;
I whiffle and pleat expert experts forming permalinks
In my head of Continentalist stanchions
to and fro in worry one handbook to another, belayed