The National as A Way of Interpreting My Favourite Martian

By | 1 February 2015

I’m thinking about how I understand you; if garages or Martian
food were made illegal. If I name George by
looking at Nigel. I look at Nigel: I look
at night. Like a storybook, yet much more visceral
I get under a clod but have reception problems
I had to ask a magpie what Puritanism was. They said
you can imagine what. Everywhere people were grasping their own
metaphysical waists
as if a metaphysical circus act. My
Favourite Martian
wasn’t like that, yet all
thought it normal. It’s why we needed
brownies. The newspapers were like people who wanted to be newspapers
by screwing themselves up and hiding in a brownie and
invading a Martian’s body and only then were they finally
satisfied. ‘Did they hate Martians?’ a magpie might ask later
Well, it’s funny. The poem invasion. It was more like a
virus than a slum landlord. Or maybe more energetic. That we
could think in this antennaed way suggests the civic good of
returning to black and white TV lounges, to telepathic postures

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