Internal Foreigners
Internal Foreigners Look, there comes one of them now! Put us in space, Brigid, or we'll boil off in this desert, freeze off antediluvian borders, färt el norte, tarred from pale ghosts, hunted like heads beneath Doggerland, spar over the Irish sea, fast on farms, tongues jello, sing "Ne me quitte pas," our minds' subsistence for zombi, sifted, tripped over Brigid's guests with red frocked choristers erect in Pottsville, worshipping Dagda so young barbarians can't rule us with bitter smoke, an acrid conquest, scent of burnt feathers, hair, lice, worm us through this place, stagger to college, "Just sew," effaced, prêt à-porter, piping, gigging, "Sad duty," dusty, Brigid: a demo won't tout an intern without stipend: we reckon...