Tuesday 5 April 2022

The Tracksuit

 




They keep it in a vitrine in a hidden room

on Matthew Parker Street. They burn

cigars before it daily, read his wishes in

the shuffle of recordings: TV, radio, his DJ

sets and interviews, his patter randomised,

things set out in his second, secret, will:

his wish to fuck the Baroness

post-mortem, for example. Take instruction 

from a ghost, Burke's partner literalised

in Hinton's neverending now. The ace

of shades who fixed it for them after

2010's dumb luck, who modelled how

to play at sainthood while alluding

to desires left unspoken. The man who

knew what gets the British going

is bacon rolls and doubletalk and stunts

and plastic flags, and creeping worship

of Britannia's corpse's cunt. 


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