O, To Feel Unwell

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. ✄