Military Mumbo

In the know

Our relationship to intelligence:

unintelligent; floating around
like a misdirected childhood
without letters and numbers
and colouring books;

painting-by-number kits
that cannot be read, that
translate into psychedelic houses
and grey fields and purple cows
with jaundiced udders. Intelligence

farts and huffs and dies.

Retraced and recoloured, and
as a harried Chinese whisper,
revisits ever more inaccurate:

‘til it is another.
‘Til it is stupid.

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