This is happening (a poem)

Some of the things I was noticing as I was writing…

The curtain is off
his visage is now on full display
in all its dysentery-stained, diseased-fruit
fascist malfeasance

The tilt into hell is remembered
with nostalgia and reverence
of otherworldly things
drawn without outlines

She looks like she’s bending
forward and backward at the same time
such is her grief—is it grief?
her distress plays on infinite loop

The high-pitched drone in the next room
announces the death of The Source
when I walk through the doorway
I can see my breath

(26 March 2019)

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