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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