Poem for Jo Cox

‘Young men and women [will] gather to revel with music created by White artists and composers, but never to undulate or jerk to negroid rhythms of any kind. It means pop music without rap overtones and art galleries without Jewish-inspired ugliness and sickness. It means films in which the appearance of any non-White face on the screen is a sure sign that what’s being shown is either archival newsreels, foreign news, or scientific footage – or an historical drama about the bad, old days’ - from the National Alliance website.

Jo in her red dress,
Jo by her barge,
a tug of war, two
children, without her.

In Birstall. Neo-death,
Jo on the floor, abstract.
Also not abstract:
A woman. For change,

for love, her red legacy.
Her woodland eyes,
the setting sun.
Parties, acronyms:

Violence. Jo in her
jacket with the white
tipping. Jo in Darfur,
working, open-wide.

A voice for the torn,
their eyes full of
brickdust. Hope,
the aching flame.

Rest well. Hurt by
stupidity, small-blinkered
alliance. Rejection of
beauty- dead lost

on the wrong side of peace.
Toilet queue poem

The pain of
Life skills.
A bar. The relentless
Upon your past,
Upon your armpits
Upon your life experience
And also dreams.
Oh leave it.
We can live without it.
Without walls,
A city wall.

Barriers. Also space.
Dream time. Aced it.
Speculation. Gratification.
Arse poems. Death divide.
Whatever. Well, here I am. A dance,r.
A pathetic space of excellence.
A spurious angel we call
Spastic. Energy. Selfish
Shut your death.

Where is the new world you
Arranged? Where is the new night
Of great. Dead. It is death.

A shining age of Unknow. Here in the the crystal nightclub. Here in the dawn of cunt. A dilemma in green, in burnt ombre. We call it fun but not fun, a scourge. An embarrassing leap for connection.

Where can you go from here? In real time. In real response time. In real Madrid time, the stinking penalties, the glamour of failure.

Hi. Hi to you, the loser of the toilet queue. A quest. An internal space. A fight. Gratitude. Disease. Anal spite. Age. Extra strong. Fabergé. An emptiness called dread, called face. Oh face. Oh bream. Disaster. Fabulous grief. Darkness. Fantasy. Space and computers. Computational ace. Computational spend. Too much. Expensive poem. Six thousand pounds at least.

The Dreamover. Dream of dank spunk. 



one for joy 
two for joy 
three for joy
four for joy
five for joy 
six for joy
seven for joy
eight for joy
nine for joy
ten for joy