Not the town

p
o
e
m
s

as in a colonial outpost

local do-good cablers

on pass-the-microphone-tv

make Rimbaud’s

“oxidize the gargoyles”

sound like the butler

in the “Red Dwarf”—

not the town,

the walls, are painted red

for years & years

the households suffer

bloated ill-temperament,

the way personal crises

can continue in an

underlying manner—

the reminder is

“don’t ignore the abject.”

that reminds me—

these parliamentary candidates

are those Baudrillard

would call

                “a conjuration

                of imbeciles”—

chaotic music backgrounds

their flaggy luncheons,

their floral tributes

deny any opposition,

their militaristic hobbies—

fokkerschmidt submachine

diesel boot the bottom line.

scanning the windows

of Cash Converters

for stolen cell phones,

the ground trembles

as traffic exits the shopping

complex parking station,

in fuck-the-reader-Timezone

the premature ejaculators,

their fingers on the game,

hoot for joy every time

they destroy another animation.

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Gaston F. de Bearn

Tuck finished his soup and salad one Sunday afternoon. His wife left to play tennis at a posh club downtown.

stories

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Further Reading

 July 3

On a snowy, sleety evening last November, inside the auction room at Phillips on Park Avenue, Henry Highley was waiting at. . .

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