But he wasn’t president, just a racist old relative with appalling fashion sense, and everyone else was pretending he didn’t exist.
and am told to bury them in the yard so they’ll ripen.
I’m impressed anew by the sheer inventiveness of death.
and joined its life-like relatives on the wall.
When I woke up, it was true.
on the plush roof of the earth. After a while, it opens one by one its mush rooms.
on the Underground map uneasily, wondering how such ideal points and lines can add up to anything resembling the surface.
of our clueless questions and our rapacious gaze?
between footfalls, in a caught breath? What tic or tick of rhetoric makes the ground so unsolid wherever we are told we must mind the gap?
targets of surveillance, casualties of public sector cuts, persons of interest to advertisers and politicians.
you become even more attuned to the music of speech and the dark magic of writing.