The point is the square by Gonçalo Lamas

does the squarespeak when their mouths open?

the represented being
your sleep, my sleep; overstayed,
so as to cross-furnish the
dreamscape they were
arguing over tarmac
and 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
may be london pigeons know it best
to shit 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 or 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 just reason in itself but
not much else in itself can
be explained
against a war with
the Germans.

Copyright Gonçalo Lamas 2019

Sun in Taurus, birth in Porto, rent in London, Gonçalo Lamas is a writer and artist who draws, codes and listens with english as the sweat exoskeleton complicating the public order between subjective and objective matters.