“The reason I don’t agree,” he says back,
“is that none of us holds the same view point.”
“How many of us are you?” she asks him.
“Multitudes,” he laughs; “at least, I do think so.”
And then they go out to the near small downs
crossed by smashed up roads and helicopters,
tying themselves together with long ropes
they make of skin and hair – clutching themselves.
All are dolled up, with others, in tumbles
of breaking trees and gathered grass cuttings.
All are still unsure who they are. None know.
Not one asks it either, as they multiply
in beams, throwing themselves against the glass,
jokes cracking in the opening drying air.
--
Bartender: You really think the world's gonna end?
Ford: Yes.
Bartender: Shouldn't we lie down? Put paper bags over our heads or something?
Ford: If you like.
Bartender: Would it help?
Ford: Not at all.
Lawrence Upton
AHRC Creative Research Fellow
Dept of Music
Goldsmiths, University of London
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