Het is weekend. Weekend ze.

I am alone with this. The thought is like
A bit of rotten meat, and not to think
The aftertaste. I summon a crowd, the mike
Melts at my lips. The burnt wires hiss and stink.
I am alone with this. The inward sea
Lies moonless, stagnant and rotting, for days I stand
Strucken before the brown catastrophe.
The meaning is the fishhead in my hand.

What could be done was done. I spoke, I wrote,
Their swollen hearts are quicksand, and I sank.
My voice is ballots burning in my throat.
What shall I say, with only myself to thank,
Of shrivelled minds and fear and artifice?
Nothing at all. I am alone with this.
Prettig weekend. En be nice.