Our Man in Europe, dave delacroix... In Camus-s Plague.
In Camus-s Plague the dead were dead, the Sick, sick, the ailing, ailing, the Nursery of Pandemic took the SONG out of any rhyme.
It was dirty bandages, defecating limbs of meat, STENCH, an emergency lost in emergencies, no Hi-tech flashing-light-Walkie-Talkies squawkies, and Uniforms, all KINDS of Drama Queens, Space Cadets, Squawkers, Losers, Pandemonium-Usurpers, little HITLERS, Commandants, Politicians who-d APPEAR-film crew In-tow disrupting squeaky wheels of navigating body-trolleys conveying corpses to the RE-frigerated Semi-truck out back.
And then that SHOCK-PRISM of Silence.
Wasn-t so much the smearing blood to speak of. The blood was OURS. And God forgive Us. Sometimes we became Immobile. Sometimes we just stared...
c.2020. davedelacroix.
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