VrijMiBo is onkruid
The living room
is in a burrowed mood, like a Diane
Arbus photo of a Christmas tree
with detonating gifts. Rhyme riffs
as jazz blares from the Batmobile, its edgy
tires swiveling the avenues. To carry a sign,
to be real, to wait and see, to multiply
the options of acute anxiety,
is as quotidian as the moon outside the living
room that has now become a monochromatic square,
the election served on TV trays
like a granite biscuit. Who can eat?
Who can promise the ocean a deck chair,
a Frisbee? The margins of suffering squeeze.
Halos drop to the asphalt and ping
Reaguursels
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