(They Hope)

All we do is theatrical resistance —
Without direct action —

Elaborate gestures
Of a futility profound.

A pantomime —
Enervated and impotent —

A room full of brume
In my vise-like brain.

Fight fight confront confront
Resist resist resist —

Resistance is pointless.
(They hope).

What I’m Reading:

My blood has become ink. It was necessary to stop this revulsion at all costs. I am poisoned down to my bones. I sang in the dark and now that song frightens me.

— Jean Cocteau / “The Red Packet”