The secret semiotics of pain
is sacredly meaningless.

Greed turned into the creed.
Past into the lust.

Guns can’t throw up a war,
but the soldiers are sleeping
a baby-sleep
in coagulated blood,
or maybe vomit.

Some Harlequin is selling
bags of fatigue–
two for the price of one.

He might be our next president
or might not.

The light was savaged by marauding dogs
and the tunnel is filled up with the sludge
to the top.

Don’t shake the boat–
I can’t walk straight!


2 thoughts on “nausea

  1. Disturbing, which I’m sure is the intent. I’m wondering who the the Harlequin symbolizes? A presidential candidate, as the next line suggests? If so, which one? None of them are mute, though most do seem to be a sick joke.

    This isn’t your most hopeful poem 😉

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