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All The News Unfit To Print!

The Selected Works of Mr Crow


The wayward poet intrigued but scared most people.   He was a regular attendee at council meetings and such a specialist at the ventriloquist whistle and the gallery murmur that security had never as yet been able to lay a finger on him (everyone knew who it was).   He and his fellow Donnés were liable to pull stunts at any moment, indirectly lampooning the status quo - indirectly, since the group had forsworn direct statement as a viable political act.   Establishment verse, Leisure Verse, Reportage were all mired in the tractor ruts of the formalist, diversionary language of the prevailing paradigm, and they would have nothing to do with it. 

It was practically taken for granted that hardly anyone knew what quantum mechanics was; fewer still thought they understood it and an even smaller number actually did - the joke in the physics world was that that number currently stood at the square root of minus one ...

He had seemed pretty innocuous at first, if a little needy, standing there at the door in his dark, dismal jacket and trousers, a little shiny here and there where his hands had worn away at the fabric, there by the pockets, there, by the flies.   He was selling some sewing kits he'd had assembled, and other bits and pieces of house-holding-together gear: sellotape, pins, Elastoplast and little bottles of some cure-all hooch that you could apply just about anywhere (including internally) and get some relief.

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