Three short lines, and a strange, bitter taste. The poem is about how we take in news of violence: not by thinking about it calmly, but by having it put straight into us. "Received spit" is an unsettling phrase. Spit is something expelled in contempt or anger, and here it arrives secondhand, already used, and lands in the mouth. The reader doesn't choose it. The mouth, which should be for speaking, eating, tasting, becomes a place where other people's words pile up.
The title, "Fulmination," means a loud, angry denunciation, and also a sudden explosion. That fits the poem's last words, "War Moon," which drop in like a headline or an ominous image in the sky. The speaker seems disgusted, maybe helpless, caught between public anger and private nausea. The mood is tense and sour, with a quiet sense that the news is something physical we can't spit back out.