Dupe goes under the hood of industrial capitalism where there is no deal, no compromise with capital, only complicity. The bearings, rods and shafts are running hot, the lubricant is breaking down, and shade–tree mechanic Jonathon Wilcke is fiddling with the timing chain. “More gas!” he shouts as flames leap from the carburetor. The dwell is finally set, Ford’s time management duplicator is idling rough yet the poems flow from the manifold.

Dupe takes up the formal concerns of Wilcke’s first book Pornograph and applies them to the body politic. The notion of musical notation guides the word on the page.