Alt Power: The Inequality of Furniture Distribution 


I’m on a bus. In Altrincham, I’m discussing the merits of alternative power generation. I’m arguing for power that is fun, and makes you laugh. Not necessarily a reliable power source. 

We pass a domed steampunk building, curved metal pyramid layers. At the end of the street, houses like washing machines. All steel angles and giant round glass. I’m upset I never came here before. It’s within a days bus journey. I remember a reality TV show set in the building. 
I’m walking to a meeting along the seafront. I’m carrying placards, that in the sunlight become crosses in my shadow. I see Matt P working outside a pub. I think how much that suits him. A failing fire juggler makes me laugh. He’s enjoying himself. I pass a child feeling existential angst at my potential protest. I’m amazed at her youthful vocabulary. I arrive at the squatted cafe where the protest will begin. I lay my placards among the others. My slogans are silly and sarcastic, one calling for a petition against another group there. An old man falls out with a young man by offering him an empty sweet wrapper. I notice a table where the important people sit, while I sit on the floor. 
The inequality of furniture distribution. 

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Alt Power: The Inequality of Furniture Distribution 


I’m on a bus. In Altrincham, I’m discussing the merits of alternative power generation. I’m arguing for power that is fun, and makes you laugh. Not necessarily a reliable power source. 

We pass a domed steampunk building, curved metal pyramid layers. At the end of the street, houses like washing machines. All steel angles and giant round glass. I’m upset I never came here before. It’s within a days bus journey. I remember a reality TV show set in the building. 
I’m walking to a meeting along the seafront. I’m carrying placards, that in the sunlight become crosses in my shadow. I see Matt P working outside a pub. I think how much that suits him. A failing fire juggler makes me laugh. He’s enjoying himself. I pass a child feeling existential angst at my potential protest. I’m amazed at her youthful vocabulary. I arrive at the squatted cafe where the protest will begin. I lay my placards among the others. My slogans are silly and sarcastic, one calling for a petition against another group there. An old man falls out with a young man by offering him an empty sweet wrapper. I notice a table where the important people sit, while I sit on the floor. 
The inequality of furniture distribution.