1
The glass glows blue like flies do in their moods, in its discombobulate glimmering, banishing night’s once quiet purplish hush – the kind of quiet a poem might once have been written from – trajectoring up & clean away from canal & cul-de-sac, from the weed-green slew’s skein, leaving the murmuring empties, my mum bluffly styling it out at your till when you both were just as embarrass’d by her accidental shoplifting – blearily skimming over Antonio Negri on Spinoza like the cunning-woman fore-saw in your coffee-grinds, the Nigerian Export that bobs jankily upon the heedless ebb of yet more big data & its’ prognosticators to buff for gloaming conjecture-porn, the dumb flow of one thing incredulously butting up against another on the dank & slightly embarrassing waves we will blithely give each other tomorrow on our allot’d & possibly fatal constitutionals .
2
Can you demand people clap you, demanding plaudits in plain contempt of the dingy plebs & what they need? Demand applauds its’ contemptible straw princes clowning contemptuous, grown gouty & malodorous on the port, audits its’ blitz comportment plotzing for the last of the shop suet, longshoremen with nothing to shift, the shutter’d flu labs they knew more than – & I remember thinking when I last fell asleep before it all went even more handcart-to-hell, even more vapid & disappointing than the rose-gold fingering dawn’s ghosting, how in the morning we’d wake to the last guffawing legacy valedictorian making of us & our need their chundering yahoo spittoon, a little probably racist flag to wave hurrah at the last of the shunt’d obstreperous coolies shat upon in dung absolvency for all the surplus tiki-lamps, for all our keening wants made to feel like the feeling of something familiar, haunting, our insides curdling .
