o e.e

e.e.cummings on a train to clayton told me, quite as an aside,

"my speciality is living said
a man (who could not earn his bread
because he would not sell his head)
squads right impatiently replied
two billion pubic lice inside
one pair of trousers (which had died)"

we would be perfect for each other him and i, side by side, refusing to adequately punctuate, capitalise or mediate our emotions. we would have words beneath us and over us but never between us. we being wholey unable to take attack would attack covertly under the cover of alliteration. we would kill the sentence, reclaim the fragment and go on perpetuating a kind of sweet malcommunicado. if he wasnt dead we would be having tea. i would like that because he might read my 242 page Anthop text and make me a poem,

an anthropologist is an arse
upon which everyone has sat except a man

and i would stand there on monday, without any doubt that i had condensed postcolonial histiography in a manner befitting my intelligence.