Saturday, 7 October 2017

"I never said that I was Brave" pt3

(You might sleep, but you'll never dream
Onward! Progress! Or so it seems
And you might laugh, but you'll never smile
Come on in and waste away awhile)

It was hard to get to sleep last night. I was drunk and tired. I took myself home, took myself into my bed and lay there. There were sounds and expressions going back and forth through my head, through the air. I'd read every word you had written. I had tried to listen to it. There was a pit of despair in my stomach.

The body lay there. It had no words. The words do not exist. Everything is loaded. I bind you to love yourself. I bind you to your immaculate care. From doing harm to others. From doing harm to yourself.

The questions have lived in my body. They are my body. It lives underneath a microscope - in its self hatred and wrecked determinism. Its visibility is its own worst enemy. It was not put here for you - it was not put here against you. It was beaten. It was hidden. It was not an object of compassion. It broke under eyes. There were walls of eyes.

It never wished to become a theory. It never intended to hurt you. It had its life inside it forever. It kept it at bay. It never tried to stop you from speaking, even when your words were nails. Every movement it made - every sign, was the production of a question. It had you in its dreams.

It saw a small act of law as a tiny emancipation. Though it knew that the law was the enemy the law made a tiny but significant change and the body felt a tiny weight lift up. The law was in the air, under the ground, in our mouths and our hearts. No matter what we did it would hound us, bury us, coerce us.

(When dreams of rings of flowers fade and blur
Giving way to that familiar ill
Come over and part your soft white curtains
Where I'm waiting for you still)

It remembered how well dressed the moralists were when they opened the doors of the town hall and said "people of Austria, our identity is under threat." "Men of America, if you don't make a stand you will lose your jobs and your wives". These are the words of the custodians of law. They said "we need to have a fair and reasoned debate about the Jewish problem. The Jews are a threat to our identity. They are trying to infiltrate our spaces. They are unsafe." They said "womenfolk, your primacy is being threatened". All the while they enforced the primacy of women. They constrained women. They used their bodies against their bodies. They said "you are under threat." All the while those custodians of law were the threat. All the while the mind of the abuser was left unquestioned.

Bodies like this one became the icon of threat. They became abstract examples - they were subjunctive bodies. They were used to demonstrate what the custodians of the law might be allowing. They were made to be hypothetical. But listen, dear friend, listen to our weaponised bodies. Listen how they howl, how they are mocked and disassembled. Our bodies are united in their strategic capacities. I bind the law. I bind you, law. I bind you against causing harm to others. I bind you, law. I bind you to cause harm only to yourself.

And then you shocked me. You took a picture of a human being up onto a pedestal. You made an example of a human in pain. You questioned to essence of a human identity. A cold argument. Asked for a logical dissemination. I didn't think you could do that - become a custodian of the law. What would that spirit say? That immaculate compassion - the one who has seen into your heart beyond the tracts of laws and of bodies and of polarities. What would its words be? What would it make of these establishments of fixed icons? How will the spirit purge you into love? It was a coldness I had not heard in your heart before. I bind your heart against the cold.

The custodians of law threw wide the doors of the town hall. They set out the rules of engagement. They guided the voices of the people. Steered them away from their compassion. They taught their tongues to articulate their displeasure. They showed each other to the targets. They held up bodies in front of the people and said "these bodies are a threat". They said "these bodies are mentally ill". No one thought at this point about how the mentally ill should be treated. Their resolve became firm. The custodians of law said "these bodies want you to be silent. Look how they scream when we try to debate. See how their eyes are filled with hatred!"

(My stomach swears there's comfort there
In the warmth of the blankets on your bed
My stomach's always been a liar
I'll believe it's lies again)

Did you look into those eyes? Did you see what fear looks like? Did you really see hatred? "See how they do not want you to speak?" screamed the law, all the while the law kept the women in their seats, in their bridles. All the while the coercion of voices raged and hissed. The bodies on the platform were ready to take leave of this world. All the while the law whispered in the ears of the people. All the while the men looked on. All the while I bind you against the law, against coercion, against the formation of fixed polarities. All the while the bodies on the pedestal trembled and said "I bind you" through the dust in their mouths.

The bodies were photographed and examined. Their names were passed around. The discussion was the end of compassion. The law dismantled it. The law enforced and switched. The law crept into houses. I bind you to your love. I bind you against definition. I have no power. I do not exist.

The bodies in the air, their sound: "I do not exist. I do not exist. I do not exist. Only you exist. Only you exist. I do not exist." And the law fizzed, its subjunctive electricity. The spirit. The law. The sky. The body. The water. The fire. The wind. The chaos of the silent air.



(My Lord, how long to sing this song?
And my Lord, how much more of this pretending to be strong?
When she stands before your throne
Dressed in beauty not her own
All soft and small, you'll hear her call)



Friday, 6 October 2017

"I Never Said That I Was Brave" pt2

There are some quite complicated social equations.

A wish to abolish gender --- The subject that destabilises the binary --- The natural fallacy

In the middle of that equation is the subject, the lyric "I". This character will be made to continually testify. They will be hounded by the wish to deconstruct and the ideologies of natural gender. Both of them at once. Hate crimes against trans* people. Natural women. Alpha males. Radicals. It is not possible to merely live. They must live to testify. Their visibility will be their act of martyrdom. Or try this: You live in a political situation where you have been told the laws of civility. At the same time things that you do in your day to day life have direct links to the torture and murder of people you will never look at. You have been told what is a democratic decision. You have never chosen a form of governance. You have been told what a debate is. You have spoken with corpses in your mouth. Until that is understood there is not a unit of sense in any single schema. "I did not mean any harm" does not equate to "I did no harm". We are harm. To most of the globe we embody it, pronounce it. We are the enemies of the soil we stand on. Then there are the circumstances of day to day living. Do you ever feel you are being watched? No. Embodying harm does not mean you can justify feeling guilty. Guilt is the fascist inside you cackling. There is no movement from point one to point two. There is an entropic motion of spheres perhaps but you are not hanging off a hook and this won't get you off. Nobody likes to be interrogated. Yet here we are put on the slab for your discussions. Men are still at large. They way they win is imagine the natural fallacy and the wish to abolish gender abolishing instead their intrinsic contradictions and acting as an agent of death against the subjects who dare to dissolve parts of their taught genders. You are now an agent of that violence. It's like every kind of splitting. The desire for unity is tantamount in some situations to the desire for the death of the other. They were taking photographs to send to the estranged families of people who are 70% more likely to consider or commit suicide. They called this the "documenting of a reasonable debate". I cannot write about these people in clear language because they will doxx me. Before you begin to say the word "reasonable" consider the power relations. "There is only one way out", they thought as they balanced on the edge of the bridge. There is no radical movement in enforced binaries. There is no psychedelic plane in the enforcement of motionlessness. Sometimes someone says something to you that makes you want to die. That is not an abstract metaphor. We were sitting by the window. Neither is it a logical set of circumstances. The enemies of the soil do not get to speak with logical voices. They howl in the wind. They do not posses the powers of reason. There is an argument to be made for removing the bodies inside our brains piece by piece. Apart from that "I am afraid". "I do not mean harm" when "I know not what speaking is" or "I do not know what I mean" or "creating a world devoid of context". It will end with a few horrible men wondering around in the dark screaming "faggot!", "fucking bitch!", "you deserve rape!": All of the walls will be gone. There will be nothing left to echo. They will be stamping on bodies and dead soil. They will beg their own shadows to take offence.







Thursday, 28 September 2017

"I Never Said That I Was Brave" pt1

I never said I was a "real woman" nor did I adhere to your distinctions - the broken knotted world of your categories and gibbets - your essential primacy. Nor did I frivolously saunter here without being drenched in steaming tar - in alienations, agonies and abuses.

Nor did I attempt to rupture your spaces. Nor did I shepherd my body and thoughts into a singular character.

Nor did I assume the dialectic and character of your history. Oh, essential subject.

Nor did I claim the keys to the apparatus of an entirely dismantled ideology.

Nor did I sleep through the night, nor said I was fully awake - those were your claims - you inhabited them and threw them at my body, assumed my history. I did not say that I was brave but I did say that I was beaten in the Men's Room, in the road, but I also said that I was afraid and I also dragged my feet and I also screamed for the deracination of established sex.

We were stockaded, doubled up and gagged then made to speak.

I was lucky and neither was I lucky. I did not ask to be taken into a medical examination, to be a pathologised subject, a piece of transferable data some kind of stabilised example.

Yes, perhaps there were moments of asking to drop out of the universe. There were pleas against the force of stabilised gender norms, but then there were still more pathologists and shitheads and explanations forced into our mouths and our eyes and people throwing around words like "toxic" and "drag" in the indistinct daylight there were mouths crying out against our ideologised bodies so we lurked in the toilets like the filth we were.

And yes, sometimes I do hide there waiting for silence before I can show my face and yes it is a weaponised generality that speaks inside it.

I never asked to join the U.S. Marine Corps. I was party to the mutiny by proxy of thought, there was a derangement of conflicted motions and love was taken out of us.

I did not give my consent to the idea of an opposite, to a world of stupefied duality: That under the Gender Recognition Act 2004 individuals may change their legal sex but require approval from the medical profession, a diagnosis of gender dysphoria and to live as a member of the opposite sex for two years, of who was to conduct this analysis - which upstanding professional with preordained certainty, and what great liberties might be achieved after the tests and cures, the prescriptions and siphons.

Ahead of you is a perfect sequence of rational and professionally state sanctioned grills, routers and sieves. Behind you is a repressed derangement of habitation. Inside you, a screaming barb of lyric, passion, expression and defiance. Now sit tight for the probe. "I never said that I was brave."

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

THE LENGTH OF A CONFESSION


Two or maybe three summers  ago
we left our house and walked
to the other side of the square
into another house. Into a party. Thousands
felt like it had gone into the colourful
projections which seemed to say nothing
but “I am here” - a wall of jostling voids,
the music an extension wherein my thoughts
gathered to die. I was afraid. We tried to find
our place, being introduced as “those ones”,
elevated into their society by merit of what
they said that we had done and what it was
it was assumed we now went through. Oh
but how toughly the concepts of individuals
clog up the pipe. These were exactly
the kind of souls my prejudices had shored
me up against:
                          Maybe the worst but also
the most honest was a man who sat in the garden
sprawling his legs wide over two chairs
his bleached hair framing an embarrassing bandana;
he spoke incessantly about money
and his virtuosic guitar playing, he could
hit the body whilst also nailing down
a tune in complex time. His disposition
towards music and tortured wood
perished back in his sportsmanlike boasts.
He had fifteen bikes, on and off road
and whatever else there was to be said
by any single mouth he had jumped
into it first. You could say there's very little
wrong with this. Judgement is afterall the problem.
In that sense it seems true I have settled
in the wrong city. How it holds my stupid head up.
Hard to be completely unscrupulous are incorrect
refer to the help section.
                Then there’s another man
of a similar yet entirely unique masonry. He’s got
a coat we felt some love for like destitution. It was covered
like the night above the roaring projectors was: In stars.
Stars and moons in an ocean of blue fabric oh what a mouth.
From this side of the room the drawl ran in,
the Dandelion dancing near the French window kicked
some records down onto the floor but if they were anything
like those swaying in our ears I hoped his clipped steel toes
would grind them into the 40% introductory discount. Or
anyway his voice and all the things he said or (Jersey) Law
1991 and investment and general insurance mediation, that’s
not it. These were all the kind of Bohemians we knew
from the worst stories; all in their expensive robes playing out
pretences of excess. Another, who showed a dot of kindness
omnidirectional or slit right down from the bottom of my throat
to the top in his long coat the artery began to heave out or
facing the cheque for the sum of £365.20 is attached below
his coats, for there seemed to be a few, were like dressing gowns
and he took us under the stars with a proud pair of binoculars
which he just had to explain first, then gifting our eyes to the sea
of tranquility.
         I felt like a joke. The moon was burning
my eyes because silver water etc. The cold air was hot
the acrid smell replaced with beautiful perfumes
even the way they stood and as I think now of the silent discos
or the early morning yuppie raves I’d railed against
where sobriety and appropriation
are the cherished excesses are you likely to move on or
the remains of wasps in a tin or the shredded
tarpaulin. Used to be a hotel. And again
spreading bad energy comes to eat my legs as I’m sitting
alone on a train with a false ticket enjoying the silence
when those same yuppies, reader, they come and sit
all around me and as I listen it transpires that one of them
is an organiser of such an event. A 6am rave
for London’s anti-workshy-development-ombudsmen
to go along sometimes before work
and kickstart the week. He talked about their USP;
spiritual shit like Reiki. He said it was a load of bollocks
but people loved it. A little like his life. Bohemia
is a country without land or borders. Wanderers!
Adventurers! Vagabonds! How the muscular
nature of their pursuits has haunted me,
coming to think that the placement is wrong.
His name, the man in the starry coat, I think it was Indy.
I met him a couple of times in places
I like to go.
                   One of these times or the first time
he patiently enlightened me of his philosophy:
“The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love and be loved in return.”
I’d never seen that film and assumed he was just
some kind of dick, but that in him here
was at least what maybe seemed like an original
thought. But later when you told me where it came from
and we laughed I saw back into his eyes
the desperation for a signifier bigger than us both
and pissed all over myself in the realisation
of our sameness: Shame! Just identical to how Aaron
told me that “we keep our confessions long
and when we pray we keep it short”, circulated back
into this slippery diet of how fucking undelightful
actually is it or James paints a colourful yet gritty
picture of seaside life. Pick, pick, pick.
In fact there is something specifically disgusting
in this place called Bohemia. The constant
battles for approval and the isistance
on caricature - those are two miniatures. Overlapping
that is the pretence that anyone's there
beyond a libidinal desire to remain
in spite of everyone. A banker has a keen sense
of honesty in comparison. Executioners
covered in real blood. Of course hatred
for them as well.
                            No absolute wonder the estrangement
seems to gas up. Bitterness in rapture at its arrangement parallels.
Sugar. Oh, how I wish to forgive you, matterless
bandana and chains circling the moon. O gather
now in wonder. It for the sake of it or it even
when it stands there dead in the street. Next
to it a dormant shovel. It is not good for the world
to simply do things. We all somehow knew that.

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

With the Right Teeth

cw, mental health, BBC satire etc...


Have you been thinking about your mental health condition? I bet you have, you fucking diabolical miasma. You've been thinking "why am I considered mentally ill for wishing to afford my body the most universal basic liberties whilst there are people who play golf. Whilst there are people who want to uphold fox hunting. Whilst there are people who want their children to become, well, anything at all. There are prisons..." A night thought. Work and play. Gather up the paws. Gather up the hagstones. Gather up the pylons. Put your toys away. That's why you're beautiful.

Thursday, 29 June 2017

We Will Bury You

*Note - This text contains the names of all of the MPs who voted against the proposed end of the cap on public sector pay. This is a spell against the character of the idea that seems to have populated the lives of these individuals. It is also a feeling of nausea at seeing the same names cropping up over & over again. The text was composed between 11:35 and 13:03 on the 29th June 2017. The title is borrowed from a protest slogan once yelled by William Rowe.*




 We Will Bury You



Tonight, whilst you sleep you will begin to convulse. You will need to be saved. Nigel Adams.

Tonight, whilst you are dying the world will sleep assured that you will disappear. Adam Afriyie.

Tonight, whilst you are dreaming of your world cells will latch their teeth into your bone marrow. Peter Aldous.

Tonight, whilst you lie dutifully on the ground your gut will wrench & prickle. You will shit in your bed. You will lie there, you will come out of your dreams asking for help. Lucy Allan.

Tonight, whilst your body rocks backward & forward in consternation, in doubt you will feel your heart murmur. There is a hole in your heart. Heidi Allen.

Tonight, whilst you sleep your fears will pour back into your head. The ladders will not come to your burning windows. Stuart Andrew.

Tonight, whilst you are alive there will be coughs & blood in your piss. Edward Argar.

Tonight, whist the wind is turning gently on its course you will catch the wind in your throat & your throat shall stop your arms & feet will ache you will wretch & know that you need to be saved & helped & cured. Victoria Atkins.

Tonight, whilst you low in your stall your public will renounce the use of violence. They will discover the hammer and renounce its violence into your brains. Into your weddings. Into your right to bare arms. Into your fields. Mr Richard Bacon.

Tonight, over the tops of the ceilings a siren, a spider, a light sweeping. In your room the faint murmur of gaslight & paralysis. Tonight, the dialysis machine in your neck. Sorrow. Always sorrow. Mrs Kemi Badenoch.

Tonight, whilst you are gone. You are gone forever & forever. Mr Steve Baker.

Tonight the dead will. The dead will. & "we will bury you!". Harriett Baldwin.

Tonight is fuel is your body. Kindling. In your ribs a sudden volt of traction. A nebulous subsonic itch crashing into your salary. A careless spell catches your stars. The edge of a rib cuts into your lung. Stephen Barclay.

Tonight, whilst in your need you cry out. You cry out for someone to come to help you. All your private establishments have gone to their beds. There must be an ambulance somewhere in this long night of blades. "Come to me! Come to me!". Silence. "Help me!". Mr John Baron.

Tonight, it is because your voices have acquiesced to unthinking forever & forever. This occasion is a public birthday. One decision amongst a planet. It is your whole thought has been destroyed. Nothing of you left. Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Guto Bebb.

Tonight, as if in love you turn in your naked bed. You turn & are ripped out & aborted. Forced to swallow yourself. Sir Henry Bellingham.

Tonight, is goodnight to a lifetime. Richard Benyon.

Tonight, whilst you pace in your prison cell packed in with the men you made your life to desocate there are no guards. There is a stone coffin. Sir Paul Beresford.

Tonight, oh the pausing death of astriction & 29 other galaxies close in the love is just there behind your eye your eye refuses to turn there is no one can help you. Capped to death. Over the fields the stars pop & speak in quiet reluctant approvals. Jake Berry.

Tonight, just a hundred more. Bob Blackman.

Tonight, there are only your names. They are harmless stockades & get drunk. Crispin Blunt.

Tonight, you scratch, I'll fucking waste you, dear come back to bed. A week is a long time. A bubo. Nick Boles.

Tonight, what will come to your bed? Lavender. Buddleia.

Tonight, for the carers who took to save you. For the taken chop. For these titles, do you become allergic to yourself? Sir Peter Bottomley.

Tonight, whilst the reaction. Andrew C Bowie.

Tonight, banging out in the principalities. Listening to orchids thrash about. You were so patient. You died laughably still, but the agony there behind the mouth that could not plead. That had sewn itself shut like the insult of a cap. Ben Bradley.

Tonight, bargaining. Oh God, what are all these scratches in the loft beams? Karen Bradley.

Tonight, whilst the flame muttered whilst the fibre optic manhole cover threw its laughing throat to the sky the miasma, God it makes his belly gurgle. Mr Graham Brady.

Tonight, the winch is understated. Jack Brereton.

Tonight, in the pillory the bricks rained like mouths. Andrew Bridgen.

Tonight, racking up the lives. Your namesake, even that is gone. Steve Brine.

Tonight, I self attacked in KY & the incidents of your life. Whilst you lay in your bed your life touched the sky. James Brokenshire. Fiona Bruce.

Tonight, lie there sporting a cut. Robert Buckland.

Tonight, Jokes fall on the limbs of volunteer sectors. Everything in your arms is vanishing scissors Must combust. Must animate. Alex Burghart.

Tonight, the rodents play on your sore feet for hours & hours like the hope made us better people? Conor Burns.

Tonight, dust is flowering the heart. The monitor is so flat the greetings of birds don't come back in the morning. Everyone is sad. Everyone agrees on the sanctity of life. Alistair Burt.

Tonight, penitence the circumstance. Guilt will clutch your sleeping heads. Alun Cairns.

Tonight, pleasuring yourself till it gives out. Riots again, best to stay in bed. James Cartlidge.

Tonight, gasping. Gas. Lights off. Have you realised yourself? Sir William Cash.

Tonight, a thin tube connecting the bladder to the will. Maria Caulfield.

Tonight, shock of electronic heating is gone windows are taxed again women throw themselves under Stonewall massacres whilst the organisations of sanctioned poetry cannot help us to live. Cut the line your throat reads out loud. Alex Chalk.

Tonight, stabbing pains in all directions. What? Sorry? Rehman Chishti Paul Maynard Sir Patrick McLoughlin Stephen McPartland Esther McVey Mark Menzies Johnny Mercer Huw Merriman Stephen Metcalfe Mrs Maria Miller Amanda Milling Nigel Mills Anne Milton Mr Andrew Mitchell Damien Moore Penny Mordaunt Nicky Morgan Anne Marie Morris David Morris James Morris Wendy Morton David Mundell Mrs Sheryll Murray Dr Andrew Murrison Robert Neill Sarah Newton Caroline Nokes Jesse Norman Neil O'Brien Dr Matthew Offord Guy Opperman Neil Parish Priti Patel  Mr Owen Paterson Mark Pawsey Mike Penning John Penrose Andrew Percy Claire Perry Chris Philp Christopher Pincher Dr Dan Poulter Rebecca Pow Victoria Prentis Mr Mark Prisk Mark Pritchard Tom Pursglove Jeremy Quin Will Quince Dominic Raab John Redwood Mr Jacob Rees-Mogg

Tonight, cladding is a bailiff being taken down for a good hard fuck in the face. This is the custody of your public. You see it for the first time. Starts this evening. Done by dawn. Mr Christopher Chope.

Tonight, clusters of maggots born inside you. You are not a life. It is not wrong to want you removed. You said. Jo Churchil.

Tonight, there are a thousand more burning windows waiting to shriek out so what, employ some dead vehicle of malign racism. Justice is done for your name only, yours. & the branks is you. The branks is you. The scold. Colin Clark.

Tonight, you hit at the keys making some kind of horrible sense like there's cork bark in every spot. Greg Clark.

Tonight, the hatred you turn into your spouse, your children, the whole - it goes back into you like a moan of satisfaction. Mr Kenneth Clarke.

Tonight, not the bees. Oh God not the bees. Mr Simon Clarke.

Tonight, your skin is mildew the only hope is the cops. They are all alive & scoffing on. James Cleverly.

Tonight, Help. Help is the missing digit the scars of cockroach signatures melt in the environmental hazard switch. Geoffrey Clifton-Brown.

Tonight, whilst you go in & out of your horrible little dream, then this then that, blah. Never stop dreaming. Dr Thérèse Coffey.

Tonight, the hazard warning lights keep you rolling your eyes penitence never never will come there is a voice banging on the door whilst the fires wrap you up but you hate that voice & will not get it to come to you & to help you it will soar off in the wind like a whinging kid & you will yawn in satisfaction because now that it is gone there is little left for you to do but boil and steam to death, a cooked confession of the policies of social eradication. What a starched emblem of conservative truths you are. No we do not need poetics of hope. No we do not fetishise despair either. The point is you are not coming back. That is the entire life of your impact on the world: That you leave it in flames & that those that you have killed are no longer there. It is simple. It figures. Damian Collins. James Duddridge David Duguid Mr Iain Duncan Smith Sir Alan Duncan Mr Philip Dunne Michael Ellis Mr Tobias Ellwood Charlie Elphicke George Eustice Mr Nigel Evans David Evennett Michael Fabricant  Sir Michael Fallon  Suella Fernandes Mark Field Vicky Ford Kevin Foster Dr Liam Fox Mr Mark Francois Lucy Frazer George Freeman Mike Freer Mr Marcus Fysh Sir Roger Gale Mark Garnier Mr David Gauke Ms Nusrat Ghani Nick Gibb Mrs Cheryl Gillan John Glen Zac Goldsmith Mr Robert Goodwill Michael Gove Luke Graham Richard Graham Bill Grant Mrs Helen Grant James Gray Chris Grayling  Chris Green Damian Green Justine Greening Mr Dominic Grieve
Mr Sam Gyimah Kirstene Hair Robert Halfon Luke Hall.

Tonight, whilst you were murdering an animal you were naked & dressed up in Piggy's glasses & the mountains you'd seen in your youth were all that was. All that was, the mountains all over the world are so absolutely perfect. They are also terrifying. You wouldn't understand. Alberto Costa.

Tonight, there is a frightened bee in the ignition but who cares? As you turn the key & gaze round at the closed garage door. You look sad at having made some very poor decisions. Robert Courts.

Tonight, whilst you stood up to get the sex toy out of your cupboard there was a stampede of ants on your stairs & you thought domestically like a real stalwart of the house. Like a pip. Ruptured lives tore through the opened horizon. The bee gently stamped its head. Mr Geoffrey Cox.

Tonight, whilst you were saying "I love you", a very sudden death. I know boys who've been with you. You're ready for dispatch. Stephen Crabb.

Tonight, whilst you are just a person like I am a person too you felt you had come to an understanding. What are you doing? Pincers on the shoulders. Tracey Crouch.

Tonight, whilst jackets held you warm you watched. You had a bullet waiting. Chris Davies.

Tonight, the first time you had a fit. It took your teeth into your tongue. How ironic, you thought, that you were seized & stopped from speaking. David T. C. Davies Mr Laurence Robertson Mary Robinson Andrew Rosindell Douglas Ross Lee Rowley Amber Rudd David Rutley Antoinette Sandbach Paul Scully Mr Bob Seely Andrew Selous Grant Shapps Alok Sharma Alec Shelbrooke Mr Keith Simpson Chris Skidmore Chloe Smith Henry Smith Julian Smith Royston Smith Sir Nicholas Soames Anna Soubry Dame Caroline Spelman Mark Spencer Andrew Stephenson John Stevenson Bob Stewart Iain Stewart Rory Stewart Mr Gary Streeter Mel Stride Graham Stuart Julian Sturdy Rishi Sunak Sir Desmond Swayne Sir Hugo Swire  Mr Robert Syms Derek Thomas Ross Thomson Maggie Throup.

Tonight, famous people are dropping like stones. You climb into your helicopter. You are forced in. Glyn Davies.

Tonight, scabies. Nothing less. Mims Davies

Tonight, whilst you were sleeping there are many ways into the cookbook, ways you can assassinate your own time. Philip Davies.

Tonight, it must be nearly three thousand, 3,000 vaults it takes to you like a daddy. Mr David Davis.

Tonight, just in must the animal throttles your vespers. You said it Tridentine & totally illegal. Caroline Dinenage.

Tonight, as you came back to your club it was all gone. All of you were suddenly gone. The thinking around a law around a tummy & daddy said to hush & the masters & mistresses panicked in jolts of specific instruction. One moment you were here the next moment you were gone & it was so bloody well sad I don't think we'll ever bloody well forget it. Mr Jonathan Djanogly.

Tonight, whilst you had one of your so called "dreams" the scaphism happened. That you woke up to. Leo Docherty.

Tonight, assaults on the public sector will come back to haunt you but they won't so I made this pointless spell. That's the message. Julia Dockerill.

Tonight, as I massacre the dart board. No. As you were just about to pop your beautiful little eyes open you decided instead to have a cocaine induced heart attack all over the public image. Michelle Donelan.

Tonight, the surgeons went up 1% you did it good as they took your wrist arteries & sewed them into your eyes. You got a better look at every 1% you liked. Ms Nadine Dorries.

Tonight, whilst you screamed out for a nurse instead an angry band of primary school teachers wrote the word Blake & the word Crayon & the word & Wet all over your back with knives but it was you not them. You were dreaming & cutting into your back in your sleep because that's what you are - a wasted form of resistance to that which has already overcome. Steve Double.

Tonight, whilst you were getting tired out of the keys. Stomach ulcers. Oliver Dowden.

Tonight, Democratic Ulcers plagued your mouth & you spluttered for some poor sod to clean you. Jackie Doyle-Price.

Tonight, dreamy holder of the slop puts it down upside on your tongue for Christ sake let her do her job she hates. Richard Drax.

Tonight, there will be a heap of you. All piled up like puppies at bedtime. I wonder which ailments? I wonder when you have no food who will be the first to be torn up. That will never happen. You have so much. But tonight there will be some kind of forensic end. Teeth will be left of you tomorrow morning. That's all of you. Mr Philip Hammond Stephen Hammond Matt Hancock Greg Hands Mr Mark Harper Richard Harrington Rebecca Harris Trudy Harrison Simon Hart Mr John Hayes Sir Oliver Heald James Heappey Chris Heaton-Harris Peter Heaton-Jones Gordon Henderson Nick Herbert Damian Hinds Simon Hoare George Hollingbery Kevin Hollinrake Mr Philip Hollobone Adam Holloway John Howell Nigel Huddleston Eddie Hughes Mr Jeremy Hunt Mr Alister Jack Margot James Sajid Javid Mr Ranil Jayawardena Mr Bernard Jenkin Andrea Jenkyns Robert Jenrick Boris Johnson Dr Caroline Johnson Gareth Johnson Joseph Johnson Andrew Jones Mr David Jones Mr Marcus Jones Daniel Kawczynski Gillian Keegan Seema Kennedy Stephen Kerr Julian Knight Sir Greg Knight Kwasi Kwarteng John Lamont Mark Lancaster Mrs Pauline Latham Andrea Leadsom Dr Phillip Lee Jeremy Lefroy Sir Edward Leigh Sir Oliver Letwin Andrew Lewer Brandon Lewis Dr Julian Lewis Mr Ian Liddell-Grainger Mr David Lidington Jack Lopresti Mr Jonathan Lord Tim Loughton Craig Mackinlay Rachel Maclean Mrs Anne Main Alan Mak Kit Malthouse Scott Mann Paul Masterton Mrs Theresa May

Tonight, as you were the biting wind & set up yous stuck points into the corners of your eyes & howled out for love & revenge. You knew those to be the same but nothing for. Kelly Tollhurst.

Tonight, Oh, whilst The Must Of The Rich Depth the will is cancelled you have a good grave awaiting tonight whilst you must still be sure to sleep & not slip out into the road where the traffic is a force of appearance there is a little ghost crying for you there. Jeremy Wright.

Tonight, or if it must be called upon what opens you closes you in hallucinatory violence. Nadhim Zahawi.

Tonight, the cacophony of effective rule is standardised & so you take your body out of a fifteenth floor window for. Mr Gregory Campbell.

Tonight, whilst you are resting there morbid thoughts plague you. Realising what it is inhabits the circuits. Nigel Dodds.

Tonight, & well you must. In a sea of comforts there are these floating things. Eyes would never have lasted more than a week even metal down here is slowly irked & tested into the sandy beds. You out you come. Sir Jeffrey M. Donaldson.

Tonight, in the well the water turns to ice you are made to go to it smash it fall under you made yourself after the workforce. What then? Paul Girvan

Tonight, if this is if we can pull it off the whole. What were your names? They were. Justin Tomlinson Michael Tomlinson Craig Tracey David Tredinnick Mrs Anne-Marie Trevelyan Elizabeth Truss Tom Tugendhat Mr Edward Vaizey Mr Shailesh Vara Martin Vickers Theresa Villiers Mr Charles Walker Mr Robin Walker Mr Ben  Wallace David Warburton Matt Warman Giles Watling Helen Whately Craig Whittaker Mr John Whittingdale Bill Wiggin Gavin Williamson Dr Sarah Wollaston Mike Wood Mr William Wragg.

Tonight, just past ten, then will it. But as the creeping thistles in the night. Tonight's sphere of circumstance where the moon crosses itself out the order of of living supposes these well wishing people who are incapacitated of expressives - who are openly non subjects. You have the law for that. The floating vector. The beast. The pathetic excuse. Ian Paisley.

Tonight, wishes pop out from you hurt them. You crown. In the vacant early hours punching the throat. Emma Little Pengelly.

Tonight, as you were asphyxiated in your sleep you cried out. Gavin Robinson.

Tonight, as heaven is no longer surpassed as it is as the troubles had shouted down in the incandescent silent morbid sanctioned demolition the cladding was removed the cap was just like it everything you do the same thing again & again until it burns a hole the whole of the tongue wraps its arms around the tooth of your stock. Never did you listen as the words, tides pulled out. What a mouth you have. All the better for non less over stimulate & pop back in. Ring pull. Death. Jim Shannon.

Tonight, as I wrapped up the head. As your head came off you wrapped it in foil & stuck it in the oven at two hundred degrees on or off? David Simpson.

Tonight, as you slept in your beautiful dreams many screams railed up into the air. They were yours. They had no volta & were a testament to the nearly alive. "We will bury you!". Sammy Wilson.



Tuesday, 20 June 2017

SONG - for DollyTuring




      & if      're cut out
of the sun's
                       each moment
us
      up to      the waist the joy
      stumped   in the throat can't
wishly

   free associates
                              at dawn
 crossed in the light your
                                          completely
joyous world
            where troubled or where not
   is always
                    am always yours, greening
  & tilts in our bliss of horizons, now.