A woman is walking lumpily, staggering
within a train station ticket hall,
looking into the drear middle distance
just beyond the walls. She’s moving quickly,
getting in the way of several people.
One looks exasperated, which she sees
and shouts at them: “What’s your fucking trouble?
I am pissed!
It’s my democratic right!”
Downstairs, in the moving carriages, music
bangs into other music. No one hears.
Fear soft shoes between cries, reverberating
announcements reciprocally pushed out of tone.
Belligerence with a sagging belly
makes more space for only one position.
--
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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