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The best lines in this poem are far better than pretty much any other poetry from that era, so I can excuse the dreck.

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This reminds me of the short story (if you could call it that) "Scratch," by Iain M. Banks. It's a stream-of-consciousness critique/rant/word object attacking Margaret Thatcher's England, with a definite fear-of-nuclear-war aspect. It's so chaotic that I couldn't even read it at first, let alone interpret it, but it's grown on me over the years. The accompanying illustration in the copy I own helps a lot: a mushroom cloud rising over a street with parked cars and a discarded newspaper in the foreground: the infamous "GOTCHA" cover of The Sun from the Falklands War.

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Oof, yeah, that version looks pretty awful! The print version of "The State of the Art" is definitely better... although I admit for "Scratch" it may not seem much different at first.

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