academic consultant and writer
The subaltern cannot wield a radio mic
The subaltern cannot hold an invited audience captive in a Best Western of ideas
The subaltern cannot speak
The subaltern cannot create an epiphany of androcentric individuation
It is a vagabond nomad subject
An unruly brown excrescence
They shine greasily under the studio lights
And they are collectively unruly in their disavowal of soft furnishings
They can Kyle but they cannot Ted.
“Down with this sort of thing” says Father Ted.
And who can blame him?
And what does Mrs Doyle say?
Mrs Who? Who knows? Who cares?
She can’t speak
And in this zombified, zoomified world who cares?