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R A D I C A L L A D S , B L I S T E R S & G L A D S U M M E R S Light the lamps for a government of impostors—; their background check will not work out. The candidates start their idiotic speeches. Their speeches sound like: boing. They sound like boing boing. They go boing-boing, boing-boing-boing. Out on the coast, a yellow splits in two till only the visible remains: near the dairy, such a calm doctrine of mustard, a defensible pageantry . . . underground, a host of black syllables, rushing to the tribes—; Walter Benjamin nods on the train; he makes it out of Portbou . . . O Europe, your childhood was a rupture: boys thrashing through thickets, blisters on their knees, thinking they would be safe in revolution with an art too difficult to be installed . . . & didn’t they care? They still care. Prince of Thursdays, the A gives its legs to Autumn, your O to the osprey. You never doubted poetry—anxiously taking vermillion tones past disappointed citizenship— F O R M P 9 1 ...

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