Music-hall posters squall out:
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t is a glossy skating rink,On which winged spirals clasp and bend each other:And suddenly slide backwards towards the centre,After a too-brief release. A second arch is a wallTo separate our souls from rotted cablesOf stale greenness. A shadow cutting off the country from us,Out of it rise red walls. Yet I revolt: I bend, I twist myselfI curl into a million convolutions:Pink shapes without angle,Anything to be soft and woolly,Anything to escape. Sudden lurch of clamours,Two more viaductsStretch out red yokes of steel,Crushing my rebellion. My soulShriekingIs jolted forwards by a long hot bar--Into direct distances.It pierces the small of my back.
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