The Tram to Wednesday
In the peripheralist sense this tram heads
to Wednesday, the stagecraft of the new emperors
dancing on the headlines of the papers;
a group of politicians in the park
point laughing as we pass, this route
their sample population, the prevailing
social model of action by sequential crises
reflected on the timetable. All of us on board
rehearsing our interviews or recounting our
chores. 11 different perfumes, I tried to
count them, Arden and Miyaki, that
snowdome by Gaultier, scents to hide
the intentions of the animal that has us
here, in this politely indifferent flesh,
among the fresh news print.
Stigmata for your semantic sins, says Mr Speaker
and points to the Ministers feet which bleed
(he checks them, a reactive inhibition) and I
think we may be alerted to this liberal conceit
of safety by global law and domination by defeat,
but for now, we are fighting over seats, there is
standing room only, a long day at work, our vision
narrowed to the weeks before a festive season
relieves us, and we dance with habitual celebration.
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