Mark Francois MP

         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

         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,
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:


No doubt the public should know the privates must know the commons know already the
point or crowd at which
no clue or square
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 just reason in itself but
not much else in itself can
be explained
against a war with
the Germans.