does the square speak when their mouths open? the represented being your sleep, my sleep; overstayed, so as to cross-furnish the dreamscape they were arguing over tarmac & nicotine jumps over Parliament Square’s sweat loads of a crowd’s mere crowding to spite a square’s mere circling for glory like dribbling hopes in warm blood, over foreign marble: signs of sovereign exception come in all sorts of opinion pile like dirty laundry tells of rainy days and I quote the sun rising the same day twice: a shiny forehead plinth where, visibly, human labour cries the very same juice stars are made of every hard fought today vacating what free will otherwise rest their feet on the aforementioned geometry, but the backyard cosmology kind when tourism is but wet euphemism for colonial expanse maybe london pigeons know it best to shit that Churchill bronze in purely chromatic white supremacy atop eye-level a backdrop for mum takes daddy takes kid takes other kid takes grandma takes disconcerted dog to made in China selfie-stuck buttress for national self-safeness not that spectacularly but just as effectively at the blink of the non-existing shutter on the i rigging everyone’s smiles in unison as they utter, as it happens: UNIVERSAL CREDIT! No doubt the public should know the privates must know the commons know already the point crowd at which no clue or square remains as to why the fuck is Mark Francois still gurgling in the trenches of a more bellicose past, iron banks cached to render any utterance with the same cheek-red impunity for which just about any reason is at once just excuse and reason why one reason in itself but not much else in itself can be explained against a war with the Germans.