For a new Leader...
✄ To get to the vomit, o, days
of hope the code is 808,
remember nothing, there are amateurs and corpses
the philosophy is junk is threat organisation
poisoned. Said
the rumbling turd in whitey flop: Never try and do
your own fan belt in a dark car park with the wrong tools
under a tiny bonnet. It’s gone, jettison reform I believe
to trust just thin enough / a seaweed thin / an almond thin
we fashion a coward’s soothers, a glue for a Blob Job.
Your balls come off, production values.
Industry standard. Outside commodification
become violent on the stairs to myself, paradigm
growth and one in the armpit keep peeling skins: Por rata. Por.
I went downstairs, on the phone to the driver, collected my food.
My skin fell off on the way back into my flat.
Cause over matter. I went inside my own home, closed the door,
and pressed ‘record’ on the voice memos app on my phone.
Energy over space and time, shut the front door
after a loud scream and banging,
a moth bellows
a sweet tooth falls out,
followed by silence, I ran upstairs,
I knocked three times at their front door, but there was no response.
Just a stack of brooms, a limb of corpses stealing on the road.
My father would cook for us once a week, a lorry came over the Moors
packed with food.
We ran towards the lorry.
We had been striking
for two weeks. The shaft was primed with dynamite. Five soldiers
and four police officers ordered us to put the food back onto the lorry.
We laid out the officers and cops, made them carry the food
to the village hall. I went back upstairs into my flat,
and we agreed that we should call the police.
Do you like
calling the police
crap glue
I called. Called the police.
A hot pink sun
my love for you, aching
beck to
thrusters. The sea calls your name.
A sad sandy mopped turd lowes on the beach. Why is there beauty.
You’re a policeman.
You go weak in the arms my arms this country faces a
restore on the path to long term get
with more money on the beat full fibre
punishment routines death on job destroying lunacy
lies under the ocean. Unleash on
as a toughed sil
stir up in love withering in light.
Really what beauty is
national speed limit
wrought in turd.
We know you’re all up to something and we won’t rest
until every last person in Britain is behind bars.
Issued by HM Government. To support from a seat
death is death
we need you go on the floor suck your life’s dawn
here is the head here is the heart bring up the floor
whoever you fathom together the floor to death
you to death there is death there is
forfeit and there is death you are born;
there is a floor
there is beauty there
is death and equipment,
hello
across the river and a drowning body deliver what
will help. Still though you over energy over matter
here he is, each pylon has a name and personality
you’re too untrained eye, if I forcefully stare
over your shoulder
put a child in a wooden box, a good
mouldy death, crying on the banks
of the stairs like a cost, disruptive
and a lathe, flowers! Oh! Would you be prepared to hang there.
We formed a queue. And that lorry
were packed with oranges, tins of beef, bags of flour.
You’re disgusting.
Constable stops it in the street and the soldiers stand
in a line, like toys they were. And we’re told
the lorry has got to turn back,
well, we just weren’t having it,
so we gave the soldiers a hiding and made them
carry the food to the village hall where we could store it,
share it all out.
Later
that day
more soldiers
came,
and they shot us. I looked over at my people,
some of them were children.
“They shot us.”, I said…
You have until nightfall.
Cooee! Mary!
Here it comes. Everything comes. Everything…
Never ready for it though, are you? Funny thing is
when I had nothing to lose I always won.
He looks small…
Did he kick you?
Yes. Where did he kick you?
On my right chin.
Two members of the ERG in the bath
one says to the other ‘from the White Cliffs of Dover
to Joshua Clover where is the tenderest threat?’:
‘It does, doesn’t it?’
Ahem, my name is Grant
Phosphor the first time I saw you at Beamish Museum
a wren’s heart thumped in my eyes.
My name is oakham weave and the Imperial Measure
coxswain yells ‘dive!’; my name is Ambuscade,
is Botch-His Wrong-Cum 1912 and still with a boat
to claim for:
It’s no use,
go on without me
I’m done for
it’s no use: POP goes the mnemonic user agreement
just like the screaming hills, the listing biplane
the endless fog off a dusted grub:
You, like the moth-eared curtains are disgusting:
Upper parts variable in colouration and pattern.
Histories; out like journal submissions
on the top of a sprawling pin. Lurking in the LTD
recreation facility, distraught and popular. Spit passion
with a corpse stuck in
they discovered me cosied stupid
when they looked round at the world
and thought it was really beautiful or really mysterious
legs to jelly, there is a turd-blonde
sadness shining in the air,
come on if you think you’re hard enough
look round at the world
pick up this
brush you poor fucking
corpse. ✄
