Wound Open, Burning Brightly (2025)

Wound Open, Burning Brightly Poems (2025)

I Love My Neighbours

burnt out car in Highbury Park

four seats piled with refuse

analysis of binned fag packets

the conclusion is that idle money

seems wholly useless

like Chekhov's pint glass

even a brick wants

to matter in the long run

I wear my sunglasses at dawn

because this whole city stinks

of low background steel

0 miles and 11 chains; presque vu

Southbank lamppost's a perfect gift for you

she's into outer space

ruminate on those long hairy legs

smell that notepaper

Another 13, no nape is the same

it's a zone of extraction, a frontier

of slow perfumery

and endless sanctity

a madman throws stones

down a well which sages

cannot retrieve

I'm staccato, I walk backwards

and talk crooked

they still haven't finished Bankside Yards

I've already forgotten what I saw at the

Tate today, and Artemis orbits Gaia

heed Wordsworth— a poet

whose characters are cracked concrete

but nothing's written, honey

New Chapter, New Classic

gee my life's a funny thing, when nice guys

with Egyptian feet finish last and babies are

dead in the womb and the band plays on

my gardener don't feel at home

in Slovakia and he don't feel at

home in Cannon Hill, like the gift

that keeps giving, a missile that

knows not where it goes, a bad

map will find you more lost

than no map at all

have you ever held a shard of toposcope granite

in your hand, have you ever seen smoke

coil from cardboard

bejewelled moss betrays unyielding ivy

like the pearlescent glockenspiel of the

dancing Earl of Salisbury, miniature

waltz in Queen Mary's Dolls' House

enclosure of the

commons yonder

thick roots out

precarious cliffside

London Plane; this is

my body given for you

Truth's A Dog Must To Kennel

I'm tight with the Mace Hindus

(we both worship Kubera)

they give me complimentary

envelopes for letters to new lovers

my kind of women are the ones

who wear long coats, cool observers

who mix their fragrance with my Lambert & Butler

who use weighted cutlery, and keep everything in its right place

I'm an admirer of thighs well met

essence emollient; hazel, succour and balmy March

come close,

in my minds eye

we are already making love

so good luck babe

with soul-cleaving in twain

and to hell with the East

can I just squeeze past you there pal?

Your elan is waning, your flat cap crooked

there's a thumb in your blind spot, coccyx is shot

I always think the escalator may run out of tread

never eat my crusts and yet can't move for curls—

the Euston wind ruffles my now long hair

like the clink of dusty glasses

on old Bill Evans records

like Cripplegate in the days

of Defoe and blossoms in

Bloomsbury Square, there's

a new generation of drinkers

in the Marlborough Arms

they're chasing my nostalgia

sorry we missed you

even after all that

I still wouldn't trade

any of it for the world

Year Of The Horse

Rossetti's sad eyed ladies;

translucent appendages

sprout from ochre

wiling gently in the Wye

leather peeling and

bookmarks misplaced

traces of Elgar

in black peaks

of the Malverns

Miraculous Mary

provides visions

to Parisian virgins

artificial valentines sap

marched on by Midlanders

mannequins, all dolled

up with nowhere to go

but back to the factory

checkout lasers linger over BHS creases and sinking knives

through cancerous tracheas, mineral lines pulse under

volcano agate's polished surface. A thick present

is that you, John Wayne?

You nimrod, we searched

the entire universe, but

haven't found God anywhere

Gibraltar

I feel like I'm swimming to Gibraltar

shipwrecked hifi over a smokeshow skyline

plays ponderous brass, shapes in the surf

imagine there's no William Booth

all the pasts of all the bones

in Strawberry Fields

the heartlands are my rock

litter on the breeze from Balsall Heath

passes simulacra Tipton mares and the

endless brickworks on Wolverhampton's edge

lost to the Welsh borders

a thousand Saxon castles

watched over by our lady of perpetual succour

Mercury dissolves into Aries

and big boys don't cry

The Night Is On My Mind

to the stylus

ladies- I do like this

quiet life, befriending

the dry cleaners and padding

past the gardeners trowelling,

being neighbourly, the artful

grey squirrels darting through brownfield

speculating which outfit to wear to the wassail...

there was a sinking feeling, last we saw snow

in March 2018. From the misty bowl of East Dean

to the grand promenades of Georgian Hove

footfall all delicate

wheelie bins had stalagmites

and frozen marlings dangled off mulberry trees

but now I know we will build again,

that true auguries come scarcely

and Wulfstan slumbered as ever;

through the lidless eyes of bad King John, through

regret motion, when crossbow bolts reigned o'er royal spires

Not Even The Lie Of Posthumous Utopia Is Immortal

my bed is like the ocean,

enter with one leg–

such mutilated victory

bossmen, younger and younger

serve anemic chips

and eucalyptus memories

of faded discharge papers

in hazy sun, the old Stepney

that's changing spaces

with the dynamic, the

interpersonal

and atop this Milky way

we're barreling through

the silky cold

like elusive parakeets

under a roof of thorns

time is a barbarian from

which we cannot escape

Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space

yo-yos, yam-yams

of heathen temples

as the Bournbrook gurgles along

with cargo unaccounted for

we are ice skaters

oblique strategists

too late for Stephen Hawking's

time traveler party

remind our future selves

to send an RSVP

in a mulled missive

labial fantasies

which are

spiritually cucumber

Jesus is Sauve!

Barely alive...

like Clive

change the Channel

got to lose this skin

leave cloud cover

and get up the mucus

the Hebrews

chicken-dance to

Channukah in golden fog

and the E Line flows beneath

the thickened glass we balance on

above Port Maillot

and the windmills of Montmartre turn no longer

Saint Pierre's stone dust on my fingertips

shrunken beggar expects le delivrance

from bombardment

flaneur in Tuileries

the pictures and poems

which I as stranger have entered

there are none but whispered glories in the 16th

save the creaking of Haussmann floorboards,

decorative crests with their plaster swollen

forests dark, forests unending

Flemish masters

can only dream

where I've been

and even Beveren makes mistakes

an extra block, black polished stone

spear pierced Ursula, expression rapturous

Franciscan monks

sheltering reciprocals

threaded with reed

in the City of The Swamp

here, lightning was buried

and the painted stars of Ghent

blaze for sweet Saint Stefanus

over the Ha'penny

a lighthouse on the breakwater

steadfastly faces Irish Sea

drunken Irish bastard

yelling across nativity sky

Lidl parish belies

Gaelic silver

these shrines are alarmed

by the antics of the

sidestepping priest

at Saint Andrew's

Westland Row

and cross'd Celtic Gateway

is Eglwys Y Bedd:

church of the dead

pray for us, Cybi, at the end of the earth

for no two limbs the same

the tattooist stencils around

existing ink, a false symmetry

all the unbunked trains

in the world have led me

to this; blink and I'm 27—

plodding a country mile

we're out of England, Vaseline on the lens

millennia old Suffolk fireplaces twinkle celestially

pensioners race model boats

sowing seeds to become oaks after

they've snuffed it– that's some kind of enlightenment

alack, past performance doesn't guarantee future results

I'm in love with it all

(how could you not be?)

as I collect lavender from

what felt akin to ancient times

sequiturs glinting in

primeval half-glow

they were for you

aspic like the last dodo

luminous like the Big Dipper

and such precious currency

Agency Strikes

moonset dandies in Pimlico- roll top bag, roll top life...

fill up blood tubes with women in long coats and big scarves

jewellery gone walkabout like A5 letters in the post;

imperial boomerang, smokin' Dutch in the house of God,

knelt under my namesake but can't quit desire

or these snake-backed Stafford nighttimes, a lamplight

in foliage synthesises thunder

Stars Dancing

tell me about a complicated man

a captive dreamer with jesters privilege

who spends Quakers pennies on Thunderball

tell me of Tolkien's Lickey, ain't changed in a jiffy

like Kris Jenner's face- its chimneys pumping smoke

out rough contours, Worcester thatch mingling damp and

bonk mist. Truly a boon then that my Polo jacket provides protection

against hunters while Paul Chambers' hands wander oh so breezily

over that inpeccable autumn bass, for surely

it is that time of year again

Two-Up Two-Down Tied Twixt Telecom Towers

Wake in Lichfield; Trent Valley

Severn air emboldened

by iron and DeWalt

stone unturned

down ginnels

the devil cannot win,

but you should see

the other cunt

he's febrile, register slipping

through a four hour life

don't want to sing along at gigs

his jeans touching ground

sundowning newly pedestrianised streets

city's changed, friends work in entropy bunkers

and I lie unmoved

like the Iberian lynx

nobility dies by

its own hand

it will not be

led in triumph

Every Seven Seconds

lust we forget

I used to feel

invincible, but

now I know not

how the train

screen can tell that

a carriage is full capacity

but the sweep of a

brunette woman's legs

red cut skirt as she

returns from a sultry

rendezvous at

Dave's Hot Chicken

and the old writer anxiously

adjusts his socks onstage

the carillon weeps melodies

over Cadbury ash

some yolks split bar recourse

everyone back home

is wearing those cloven hoof shoes

next year they'll be wearing something else

you can inject sand in clams

turn them any shape you please

they mature deformed, calcified

like broken spirit

a lonely cat in Centenary Square

where peeling advertisment

for looming Octagons mingles

rented charge banks, Boots pat downs

I'm even steven... I've got Eiffel Tower lungs

they exhale Marlboro Touch for you while

these stone link bridge lips

feel nothing of cold impending

Raising Colours

freight emerges atop chopped log

slopes; sweet Castle Cement!

Trundle on

sons of the royal oak bleed

redshift, old churches

of the ascension

shards of Bard

pottery in stasis

there are no living things

in my one bed flat, just

possessions become

mine through statute

through void loss

gendered objects

filled cones and

sunken

bogs

most drivers

I see, they're

on their phones

at the wheel

no one drowns

on the mainland

My Times Are In Thy Hand

labyrinths of smoke

drunkenly snog

Rea, oozing

and the cracked shrapnel

of the Irish Quarter

is forever forward

coped gables, aged tuna

every train toilet has its

own sense of chivalry

(you don't have to

go very far to

feel far away)

parcel vans crest

Spaghetti Junction

ancient acres of Arden

plundered bare whilst

steam alights the

horizon; we're still

making some

things, somewhere

yet the glass remains stained

and every house has a name

in Cadbury land

Stirchley villagers

landlocked and too

big in their boots

we're propped

up ghosts

of labour—

soggy and

quaking

for by one spirit

we are all baptised

into one body

Moderate Risk Tolerance

no such thing as a free lunch in the City

where juice retreats produce anorexic bakers

where connections missed in lunchtime queue

for we buy any car and algorithm chooses price

pennies drop as you drive out the lot

I might be wrong

but a million miles away

there's bats, stars and a raindrop moon

and last Summer night framed

perfectly by the sash windowpane

and reverberating voices

of the Mamas and Papas

drift languidly across shoals

while leper chapel's abreast meadow

old cities, recollecting molluscs

and receding shorelines

the alchemical, quarried

Sun In Virgo

oh, public universal friend

my vowels diseased

my body is governed

I can hear my heart

pounding, some like it cold

who holds the key

that winds up Big Ben

in these demon days

where danger's stranger

and stock's dead

toasts made to the gentleman of the river

to the babies buried in Cow Hollow Wood

do you remember

St George? Do you

remember when

sycamores towered

high, and lords and

ladies went unspoiled

and unauthenticated

now they just talk

and talk and talk

dictation in mile-long

vacuums, cheekbones

impossibly defined

and thong bikinis

marking borders

through white sand

please come back

drunken masters

this freedom is hollow

like train track gravel

like saddle leather

seasalt stained,

changed by every

single touch

your eyes

pale tundras

see through

wasp nests

jerky knots

woe the skydivers who fell out of love,

the darling microclimates

and that chill on

the air; already

the damp-wood

smell of imminent autumn

Causeways

her end was peace,

deconsecrated

who's leaving flowers

for Wittgenstein?

Flicked plumb pence

onto august strut

of Southwold pier

twisted silver

and water damage

looked back in anger

at a glass and a half

like nocturnal

pressing

spirit

attacks

men over a cornice

strapping straw

to a thatched roof

in the rain

to a thatched roof

in the rain

The Empty Tracksuit

hey Siri, where are you?

I'm sticking out my hand

as one would prefer not to hug

I am tired of people

with no peripheral vision

and am relieved

to open the obituaries

to find myself not in them;

one less player in the game

a scammers likeness

assumes a 2D woman

farms content,

phishes data

little do they know

that even I don't recall

my own passwords

that's not my religion.

Buy a dream and live in it

smoking avatars

create gentle density

in cities in the air

like M.C. Escher Nandos

a paradise of bones

and of weeping holes

dead ends, all

finally the wind won't change

and everyone's faces

will be frozen simpatico

What Am I Forgetting

kids climb King John's likeness

their future's

slowly cancelled,

eaten

by The Wash

Great Ouse... jagged vascular vein

through sodden expanse

a marble quarry

flooded in negative equity

somewhere

in my genetic alphabet

may lie misspelling

loveliness of ladybirds;

who slow danced on the eve

of this quarter century

underneath the arches

and catherine wheel glow

effigy effigy

mechanically dripping

diggers face

old brown adobe

lickety split,

twas a very different

kind of Highgate

yea, clean air zone

seamless journey

asunder discarded textiles

whistleboard honk

chomping pork pie

on the Cross Country,

Melton Mowbray

cosmic wink

at secret admirer

Christophus- my

eternal Fitbit friend

because I need the prayers

to counterweight

the cascade

Loaded Dice

I'm a pig of the sounder

attention is all I need

eustachian tube wrought with wax;

zero pillow talk for me, zero gratis for my chin's

peach fuzz, every ginger needle

an admission of forever boyhood.

Seventy year old love letters

where the word shapes

evoke sounds of the Cornish sea

in this British heat

ignoring peddlers

a practised art

and the rush hour crush

is wishful thinking

like unfinished vowels

fibrosed horseshoes

Keith Haring's bastardised stickmen

writhe in putrid commercial afterlife

no kings

no gods

only bitrot,

cognitive debt

and scenario based questions

that keep tripping me up

and lead me to being beaten

by better qualified candidates

but to assemble this Black Country life

I must first die on my knees

take leave of the lavender fields

of March, the Shepreth ponies

the motorway stalks

and platelayers huts

and tumble

on down

the road.

Opposite People

vision-faces in friezes

dreamy thoroughfare

expressions are those of

inhaled miasma as if

glanced cold

wrathful tank treads

can't be seen in daylight

but show up under blue

and gold like

a child detective's

secret handwriting

like second hand

smoke, hearts in exile

aorta pumping

missiles, warheads

tipped in gloom

I live in several

boxes, tape me

up and deliver

me from association

soft power works

in mysterious ways

waterfalls bleed

the wind howls

a captured slipstream

another Summer

another cetirizine hit

another go around

the Ferris wheel

welcome to the next forty years down the barrel

of cladding structures, Adidas stigmatas

paranoid plus insecure within

Office Shoes, O, privy these

rows of belaboured creps

each built to saunter

through everyman's destiny

Elephant In The Room

the Alzheimer's Society

plan on removing my data

from their records

the irony is complete

but soundless

like a casualty

at the Build A Bear Hospital

nostalgia loops

tying sooner

waxwork of Starmer, certified forever diamond

disavowed and hidden in the shank

Notting Hill townhouses licked

in black to deter the influencers

hot, cursed, deserving to die

they hid the colour

the same place that

Schumacker went

and all what's left

is a faded victory smile

Chivalry Is Perishing

I have incurred
a hundred grand
during this lease

read my texts and you'll find yourself
check my bank statements to discover
the pieces of a man; an empty flashers mac
whiffs of Diesel aftershave from several Christmases prior

Mary don't you weep, the English roses have been de-thorned
they are withering on the vine- cut to the quick by vanishing few like
a Carlingford oyster, shelled and rich, caught and cracked and iced just

for me
to slurp
its saltwater
treasure,
dancing
a limerick
softly.

If you can't see my mirrors I can't see you, oh foggy likeness of Queen Edith, and it is four o' clock somewhere sighs the M20 roadkill, no longer avian and done in by the soft verge

ever present packet, never to be outlasted
pearl white Air Max don't fade away
coastal twang don't warble
but shimmer, in throes
and nadirs, to
the Beacons
and back

Island Of Strangers

Dear Arthur Rank
I want to be
on the same dose
as Bradley Wiggins, and
never warm down
like Lily Phillips's bunda

but how can I
when that sinister
arm of industrial
pogrom pricks
remote gooseflesh?

Credit balance
due every third,
liver bloods
on the quarter
bald tradies
build houses
out of mud

and Debenhams fake
family rates
have disinterested.

The spirits of Thatcherite
golfers swing and score
rental successions
while junior assistants
chocolonely within maisonettes

see how
the stars
run

to adore a stranger
as much as teddy's
onyx eyes enough
to rescue them
from oblivion

even if they stay
in a box, they
belong to us

Clubcard Holiday

Donald stands blue
in a sea of black

recession indicator; brackish
boilers pump toxic tofu

my weight, like wealth
is unevenly distributed
a portly gentleman at 27
out of the loop in Size?

They pivoted, shelves dripping
with streetwear, emulating looks
of decade old ASBOs

don digital
5 o'clock shadows
drink cosmic lattes
and millennial greys

we have always been at war with Eastasia
with programmed subcultures
like erring crows

Totality

wound open;
burning brightly
oozing defamiliar
crisp dew and
fragrant moss

the fiddle's yell
marks seasons
the washing machine
shrieks count days

decades ephemera
rests prone on
dust-thick Persian
rug, clan pick brooches
bare but all my love
wants is a gemmed spoon

Toblerone diamond
for our anniversary
Primark Cares
and Sensodyne's
got my back teeth

see some habits
are follies but
some end
a throat hole
you could skip
stones through

Without Love Hollow As Beasts

bringing it all back home
to bricks and mortar
and rapid decay

Elgin Avenue about the same
when I left it, but my waist expanded
and there's a whole new generation
of subletters, productivity merchants
and pebbledash fetishists

raining blossom
daylight saviours gurgle
to sundry, vogue
down Birdcage Walk

sideline; the
graffiti's lifecycle
radical vitriol plucked
clean by Braun

bagpipe players
appear forlorn

nothing but a movie

Only Fools Rush In

always dream
of flying, an azure
sky of deepest
Summer

anon, beyond
tin foil candles
contracted hours

over robot dogs
robot legs
TV licence
detection vans

over Amazon Basics coffee
market trading floors

over six gigabyte data backups
six month waiting lists
and macro measurements

over Anglian blood
rusty, warm

gushing water boiling
diesel soaks quarry stone
preludes the baked clay
and flat grassland

premium bond prizes
never come, regular
cartridges won't fit HP printers
BT broadband signal can't
breach two doors

sigmoid romances
two daily; heavy
is the wallet
that bears the
bill, bears the
panel interviews
the beautiful gardens
preened in time for sale
to the right investor

automated tracking
systems have elected
control, we become Steinways

forgive me
a cliche
but the
honour of
souring
decrepit
is indeed
denied
to many

Air Quotes

first generation Cornish girls
reverse colonise Mile End
taco subscriptions draw
platelets from gravel

degenerated processes
economics to the maximum

coming here and taking our marmalade
Paddington Bear, stooge for capital
a fraction of his twee maxims
is a monopoly of ballistics
streaming British values
from Cypriot runways

sensible centrists must take
personnel responsibility
double digits for just desserts
because glass is melting
running low on sand

I'm restless, a fugue-ivory spirit
rosily nascent and
sonorously terminal

Distant Galaxy's Discovered Oxygen

Wet eyed perpetual
night arrives, legions
of people on the dole see
clouds turn ochre, sycamores
fall purple. What rebellions did partake
we in our last lives to twist us, writhing and cruel
clutching sour convictions, rejecting sinful covets across
the one road with organic shops that qualifies it as being hip?
My bowel rumbles (time again) hasten step to match Herb Alpert
performing simulacrum, to wit- those favoured historical curmudgeons
whose memoirs mentions us nought; but who knew what every saint did,
no flame burns strong enough to illuminate those eternals, sleeping furiously

Razorburn

so faux
from Adam
comes atlanticism

leading men
don't age
the terms
have changed

pink hands scratching teflon
what a difference new paint makes
among the shiny shards
of fragile, drunken cafetieres

mineral rights are
reverse burglary;
history forever
liveth evermore

only fleeting vivid

Charlemagne's shillings
are a coincidence of wants

and the North Sea enriches
and the pine adorns

Golden Virginia

I had never gone
to Welwyn Garden City

centre's a road with a
fountain, a statue
of he who dug

neo-georgian Nandos, perfect
curvature. From here
to Letchworth it's utopia
an England younger
than your grandparents

because a person has been hit
by a train in Stevenage earlier today;
shredded wheat detritus
pouring out the packet

no-more can cars
cross Cubitt's viaduct
and they don't like it
if you quote
a line of Cowper

as heaven shines
on thermal baths

ponder futures
over Guinness solitary

now old haunts close
toil grows weary
all the world is
some trade of arms
yet journey
taken without ticket
can't be swapped
with any man

ramblers travel
country lanes
single file,
flickering

Snowdrops

cigarillo ash, hotter than regular
ash. Learnt that the hard way
like perverse incentives,
casino on the Strip

shares at McDonalds
own a piece of a fillet

split stock
of British
Petroleum diluted
with water
mixable oils

turn of phrase,
optic cable
commuters
underfoot

I'm a figment, profiled

F16s pass the
office window

it's already morning
in Marie Byrd Land

that bullfighting sun
makes puppets
on the wall

Pagan goddess
her countenance
cut, smoothly
antique cross

is that the Lord,
or a halogen light?

Mark Of The Beast

querying AI
burns 2 watts

plus if you
end up 80
that's 4 months
life indebted
to teeth cleaning

must be getting old

finding grey hairs
mourning family dogs

worry for cyclists
with their kids in baskets

my Zippo
fluid-smelt hands
recycled air
after security

like shop-bought schnitzel.

Arany Aszok
riding Railjet
gypsy wino
in Habsburg shell

the tourist scoffs
at staid ritual

divorced
from history

divorced

from chestnut foothills

from yellow third storeys
sagging tram wire

all national heroes
moustachioed, fur hatted
gentlemen gazing down
out blank eyelids

take a drink

of sweet Danube

forever living
never die
never ever die

Mehr Licht!

Zillenials, it's so over
creative output's
a national insurance bill
we're homebody snowmen
in matters of taste

one by one
cling to
aspirations
but who
cares a jot
about child prodigies

our hereditary neurosis
want to spin again?

Play on;
handshake
in dream

(an ambiguous resolution)

diamond light
glittering grit
locomotive rolls
to reveal Fen-glow

pines retain
their shape

sublimation

charcoal smudges
scrawled prayer
on church doors

Trevi coins collected
never far from the beggars bag

does the horizon still grasp
Lausanne shores;
and Bohemian towers yet gleam?

You can only inhabit your own time

salon culture expired
frock coat repressed Eros
redirected to the dormant brain

proletarian plunderers of Salzburg

money meant nothing
to them

and then
merrily, merrily
lebensraum

Wagner's irregular
melodies floated
through Dachau

where krieg
rhymed sieg

fools pledge to serve
the unworthy
idols of decay

like the minutes
an Oxbow lake

Fading Flat Steeled Sea

The Post Offices run by Desis
and Gatwick getting bigger;
Crawley flattened. Even the dogs
are bored, the piggery closed

Choccywoccydoodah's new incarnation
as a restaurant for wiccas

like poinsettias, forced
to turn red, lily pollen
covered sleeves

by contrast gentrified beach
shelters and sandblasted orchestras
while nearby limestone so clean!

Sidling
abandonded
tinsel
hustle
wartime
tat

paperweight squeak
voices of Snoopers Paradise
overopinionated, overstimulated

lathered shampoo
no-tears, no-tears

the sound of teeth growing
clifftop draped mist

my face in old photos
Mr. Mannequin
in a Moses basket
blanketed sick

shells and memories and shells again

Apocalyptic Bebop

I was born; last spit
o' cliff between
here and Dieppe

sea glass late,
later than a cheap
Chinese watch
than compacted
Vesuvian dust

try remembering dinners
try to shop
like a billionaire

suffer now
Flemish stranger
there will be pie
in the sky

eternal Gog
lingering Magog

fragments of ancient Mesopotamian gods

Piers Gaveston, suzerain
wears citizenhoods
long chain

corbel likeness
hacked off homophobes
their faces
pristine Janus

morally damaged Saracen
drowneded Doggerland

soldier behind drapes
like a nativity scene
his sentence is
sin flavoured
autobrewery syndrome

generational war
pretend broke

tax slavery
rejuvenates Zara
rebel mistaken
for Saddam

dispossessed
declinist
mentality

but Great Northern keep giving me chances

though a gap I saw the pines
shook by Darragh

stroke in transit;
bistle brush
in the bone room

your Georgian arms
and Stuart legs

matrimonial