Words are smashed down until they’re small enough
to be lifted in one hand and then thrown
high up in a beautiful tight curve to fall hard
on the heads of or in between a crowd
we do not like. Not everyone approves.
I’d say, says an observer, each one there
is to some extent an utter wanker.
Thoughts are filed and secreted till they’re sharp;
the darkness helps them cut up flesh easily.
However that works. Bombs full of bullshit
are hurled at us by the police, in support
of contracts of employment from some git
we’ve never spoken to who fucks male goats.
--
Lawrence Upton
AHRC Creative Research Fellow
Dept of Music
Goldsmiths, University of London
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