(i) Heavy Weather

June rain nails the islanders and
hammering a steady vertical
makes lilacs    limes
and copper beech on
Wadsworth's golf course drive
swell out a silence of
the lady chapel kind
mystic in a C of E way
which is sort of fine. 
                             Is that
the time? What a waste.
Chris-sake I
hate this place.
                       There's no respite
and when there is the light's
ridiculous: quick flash of pixels
tarting up the members' patio
ie its purple sage aglow
with rainshine--showy
like some all-stops filter bop
right out of Photoshop.
Contrast the honest poppies
whoring carmine
without aid of sky / the weather:
lovelies down and dead beneath
the unremitting shredder.

(ii) Whoosh Taylor

Whoosh's big rig elbows left
towards the A15 for Covent Garden
racks of cabbage pallets stashed
in 7m box. 
               FM-wise J Cash
Walks The Line
and Whoosh is
God knows why.
Cabbages are Whoosh's life
and always were. Head knob at
Cabbageland Sec Mod
told 1A from the start
this is what it means
to fluff the grammar
you spell you sum you spanner
look to labouring or canner.
It's job it's not career
get used to the idea.
What's changed? Cabbageland
Sec Mod is now a comp
thank God. The rest is
mood tunes, noise.
The right to rule's assumed
by post-grad schmoozers
hacks and Eton boys.
The load's consigned and so
is Whoosh. But hey the pay's
not bad. Whoosh won't complain
will tell you trucks are absolutely it
but secretly he thinks they're shit.
(iii) “Filthy” Luke R Wadsworth
could have been a broker
so he says and who's the wiser
anyway the next best thing
is be some undeserving
Flash Jack's tax adviser.
Dress Wads in your mind
in stripy suit a little shiny
put him in a Beamer car
else at the golf club bar:
Wads holds forth on EU/yobs
                    shouts first 
                    asks questions afterwards
                    or never.
At the 19th catch him
sucking up to Flash Sir John
SJ fresh from HM's OBE salon
-- markets must-have yip-chips
made of sewage scree
a man your every child
must want to be.
In Adelaide/Fez/Budapest you'd guess
the sun is not just brass
the park not mud and muck for
horse show wannabes
with SUVs
and sometimes horses
(cross-ref first night culture gofers
bluffing Verdi choices
schmucks and smartset jacketeers
no taste and borrowed ears
the run-for-cover ruck
fatuous and
(iv) William Sutherill 1896-1979
The man's his own weather
thick-shouldered, big in the jaw,
Reads the Express racing page
computes form
can't pick winners. Rage.
Thunderhead on a bike.
Sacked instantly for fag break
jumps field dyke 
boss's roadster. 
                        Axle snaps.
That's that.
Does the crossword. Taut.
Nine letters.Tactics: don't
stress dad with table talk.
Not one to relive stuff so
home from France 1918
naught to report but
decades on his grandson's girl's
a language buff. Smirks
stirs tea    spouts on at length
in faultless French.
In politics no Tory. Neither one
for kings and queens
flags-and-bunting scenes.
Dies in council bed
iron stead
walls dirt grey   
You work hard all your life
you end up here.

(v) Dream On
"Came not by usura, Angelico." - Pound
Thought's a palette says the word spy
on the convent stair
then later in a bar across
San Marco square our
gonzo dreamer frees up
lyric cortex:
madder fragrance / yellow vortex
idyll flavours
cries and sighs
Keats in death and lilac night all
cut with day-glo maths
and Escher paths
much prized upstate of
greyscale Bishopsgate
and dorkest Wapping 
money's brattish mocking 
blighting England Thames to Tyne
    up sticks for Wick for Limerick for
    anywhere ... Florence / Bonn / Saigon
    cadent Ceredigion... 

   © Colin Sutherill 2013