I went up the Shard with Owen Jones and all I got was this... (1/3)

 

    All rehoused 

and accepted bodies 

      just above the cut

      you see that power

is quiet and 

makes perfect 

oxygen, or in

     dream or aged 

 in the rain 

        you eat 

your dinners 

     half naked in 

glass light, 

   it is your blood

rite the

     simplest loop

to love 

   that gets inserted

is the whole

    at  tilt 

        the finished

         broken negative 

   all densely 

        packed up

 radiantly 

       at a loss 

        through the 

 historical

        heart later

      on you 

   see your

          own sick 

frozen into

stalagmites, 

             and all the excluded 

        semen hangs 

      in the endless ceiling 

where sovereignty 

comes out a 

     big mouth,

        the sleep you 

        encrust in your 

        cuticles

this ideal

   space that 

     you love 

granite,
      that angel 

    looks back 

on 

   the non-work
 catharsis in the

 death economy, or 

       the now-nearby 

      in red
         wet asphalt

ruined 

       as it beautifies

        out all the 

     quiet zones 

   from the faces 

   on the job search 

         for a hope bigger than 

       a boxed in visage

    gilded in 

    the permanent
   panic, but

what can
     you do

to the dog

      machines eating

    your carpet,

         eating the place

       you still live 

             in your cloud bin 

      this hate object 
undenied the wretched 
    birdsong still

          I live in a porous

    welch it produces 

         sounds and people

speak to it on
my behalf, I 
would like my 
stolen money back 

to bright spot (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)

Each pivot is 

          too fat 

                 the      stones 

in the scanner 

                            that      it 
       is so

            and  withdrawn      

       and why      
             presence 

      pits surface to
              its points and

           with so much removed 

the moral 
       error making 

        in displaced 

               tracking      of poles, 

         ascend eyes 

   weather spoils 

            all the prices
     at home 

        not our   
    own blessed
 in the 

      blood bowl
          it gets

       held on tight 

         and spit on me 

into what

         by the field light
        or what may 
be worse

           it sickens

   ditches and mud 

water, the sky 

always grows
out the 
   same pot,

too far 

by eye 

or cloud
            the day, 
one ninth of the
 population has 
     had one 

Eaz e Litter

Eating from the letter (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)

           all for less

       to the quick

all too now

       barely turning 

the sweet accumulator 

on the stop

 accumulator 

     in flocks 

serrated

              in the single halter

glass appearing 

    to be loaded hot

    with eyes 

     either turned slipper 

           line of days
 are too soon,

      the bedroom alarm 

sets the

face in value

      sealed the 
wedge as chastity 

up nobody has, children (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)

trust seal

          is cylindric 

        to estranged

backdrop 

on the 

whole thing 

for good as

    the mud flats,

when traded 

       with living blood

in labour like 

 the souks 

you in hatred 

for the upkeep of place,

bloodline always 

choking and why 

we move 

 those who 

   did not 

feast 

to music is 

    rustic meal the 

pot of 

    the same food,

 inverted milk 

     snuff from 

the roses and 

it’s own business,  

we a plate 

      of victuals 

that would 

   still have 

no discipline to 

  counterfeit 

this vitreous

    count to choil,

     whilst cutting

  over the 

  hydroponic 

      muddy feet 

               for maudlin,
      the unknown mob 

             where mosquito disperses 

          your heart-rhymes

all that 

    has gone before us

       has to  do with

 table manners

PARTY POLITICS, LIMA ZULU 2