Having left Benedict
having to to go back
to lessons after
lunchtime recess

Yiska sensed her body
kind of rebel
sitting at the desk
as the teacher Miss N

began outlining
the brainwashing
for the period
something about

some Magna Carta
in 1215
it seemed her body
wanted something else

and as she sat
gazing at the black board
it seemed to leak
as if

she was
melting down
as if part of her
was seeping away

and even as she
picked up her
fountain pen
to begin to scribe

what Miss N
had started to write
on the board
her -what her mother

termed was her
down below-
seemed to feel
as if a flood

was about to begin
a leakage
as if some dam
had revealed

a weakness
in the structure
a thin line of parting
Miss N spoke

of Runnymede
as she scribed
on the board
with chalk

boring talk
and Yiska wanted
Benedict to be there
wanted his kiss again

his lips on hers
warm on warm
wet to wet
his hand along

her spine
his fingers feeling
her bra strap
and she feeling him

against her
yes it felt
like leakage
and even as she

dragged her mind
into Runnymede
and the Magna Carta
in 1215

and all
such history
she had the sensation
of the leakage mystery.

Things happened.

Skin fibres trace across us burning,
and all I can do is smirk at your shivers.
You know I’m an expert at *** and ex’s?
That’s why you find them in eachother.
Trained six years, broke three hearts.
Crossed a few seas and brown eyes
to find yours staring lonely in depths.
So ******* blue and yet so much softer -
would you ever hurt me like they do?
I can find all your secret soft spots too,
map the space our lips drew out.
Across Royal York to Jane? No Runnymede - where we ran to our bakery’s.
Where you loved me plainly,
if you think I didn’t know then here’s how:
I can see it in between takes, the ttc stops,
between breaths your forgetting to draw.
Like our map we are objectively real.
And you think I don’t see past you,
with a past like mine?

It is with heavy heart I address this most honourable assembly concerning a most dishonourable practice now infecting our fair realm.
In this age of enlightenment, where Britannia proudly proclaims herself the cradle of liberty, we witness a spectacle most vile: the King's men hauling freeborn Englishmen to gaol for the crime of posting memes!
This year hath seen above three thousand souls apprehended under pretext of policing "offensive twitters" and "hateful scribblings" -
though methinks 'tis hatred of truth that motivates these censors.

A learned antiquarian now faces ruin for daring to discourse upon ***** slavery - a subject any man of conscience must ponder!
A schoolboy of tender years clapped in irons for sketching a jape about old Admiral Tom - where is the English humour that once buoyed our spirits?
They cloak their tyranny in Acts of Parliament - the Communications Statute (200000003 Anno Domini) and Public Order Edict (198888886) - yet apply them with the consistency of a drunk magistrate.
The radical firebrand who preaches sedition in Moorfields walks free, while the honest yeoman who questions why his parish swims with illegal foreigners finds himself in the dock.

Our courts become puppet shows. A vicar's daughter prosecuted for a "racist" quill-posting - her words twisted like a hangman's noose!
A Methodist street preacher charged with "transphobic heresy" for reading Leviticus - since when did Holy Scripture become a criminal manifesto?
Worse still, His Majesty's newly formed Thoughtcrime Constabulary compels schoolmasters and apothecaries to inform upon their charges.
Last Michaelmas, a child of nine winters was interrogated like a French spy for drawing Palestinian olive trees!

This is not justice - 'tis the Inquisition reborn, with Bow Street Runners playing the Dominican friars!
I say unto you: Beneath the painted smile of tolerance lurks a Leviathan that would make Hobbes blanch.
Our ancient rights - hard won at Runnymede - are traded for the illusion of safety.

Let every freeborn Englishman refuse this spycraft - let no informers amongst us!
Revive the coffeehouse tradition of vigorous debate - sans fear of the bailiff!
Teach our children virtue through Milton and Locke, not through some Ministry-approved catechism!
Shall we be remembered as the generation that surrendered Magna Carta for politeness?

The hour demands we choose: liberty with all its glorious mess, or chains gilded with progressive cant.