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A Trump-tastic Thanksgiving

Over Thanksgiving break, every café I’ve met friends in, every dinner table I’ve slid into has suddenly become a political minefield. What the hell is happening? And I want to make art. I don’t want to process this election through statistics or demographics or rationalizations, because my heart is bleeding and my friends are bleeding. So here’s the art I’ve made over these past few days (best read aloud) –

 

I.

One

          Two

                      Three

                                     Four

Bring it you orange faced motherfucker.

Bring it

Bring it

Bring it

Bring it.

 

Bring the fear as I lay down

Casting shadows cross my frown,

 

Bring the fresh rose in my chest

Digging thorns into my breast,

 

Bring the urge to stay up all night

Don’t let me tire

Now we fight.

 

Standing Rock, abortion, STDs

Cigarettes, homework, Hillary PLEASE

One

           Two

                       Three

                                     Four

What the hell’s two million more?

Feel the snake thrust in my mouth

As your fingers fumble south

Choking, poking, mainstream slut

Payback is coming, you toupéd mutt.

 

II.

Turn up the music so loud that you can’t hear your own thoughts. They aren’t helping you. Turn up the music so loud it pushes down the nausea that’s eating your insides.

Your insides are jello

                      Butterflies

                      Decaying

                      Molding

                      Quivering

                      Strangling you

Turn up the music because Amanda Palmer is more healthy than other methods to prove you’re alive. Truly. Squeeze my hands until you don’t want to run yourself through with a katana.

Turn it higher. Your tolerance is rising.

Turn it up until you go Deaf.

Then teach yourself to play the ukulele.

Piecing together the broken fragments of notes, stringing them into a new language because the old one failed you.

Does it hurt enough for you to hop off the nail yet?

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