The Remaining Apocalypse

 

This wept across time and space manic howling a blood moon rapture scribbling half-caught lines visions in the sodden undercurrent of life’s kidnapped notebooks.

This burnt the shared poetry of dream understanding for a flash or glimmer of actuality in the nonresponsive virtual nightmare of superimposed existence.

This bled for relief and choked on the solids of coarse unrefined metal-urges in the wake of causation withdrawal reading dead poems to vacant soiled mattresses.

This slept on rooftops gutters smokestacks ever searching for bed and brotherhood beside rats corpses emerging from the fiery monastic trapdoors of the skull.

This heard only vague echoes of sanity in the distant caverns of tomorrow wailing a thunder rhythm and keeping our backs to the wall of the cosmic abyss.

This imitated great actors comedians musicians got caught by a bump under young wheels often leaping innocent through fractured glass unheard from now or since.

This expelled the soul from limitations of mind broke open vessels of infinite imitation passing out cold in the fog and cymbal of slow-fading memory.

This refused to end its stories in plain prose got picked-up for driving a sign stop and total failure to turn into the fascist greenhouse for mental castration.

This puzzled the stars into hidden messages and enveloped the concrete mountain range back home with a raging ocean of kisses and concern.

This accepted desire as proof enough refused the question-makers come knocking some 4 o clock an evening to mourn the endless outdated answer-machines.

This belonged and truly in the death-lit night surrendered a sacred poison ebb-tide spewing consciousness and returning to the smokeless body an empty shell.

This polished the shoulder or brow or wing in the waxy ashes of the holy river sewer dropped by degrees and charged unstoppable at the china shop of the city.

This expanded its words onto skylines mixed meaning with measure got t-shirt suntans on the brain from the dread shade of giant trademarked silhouettes.

This mastered its fear going on to swop idols over imaginary counters in guilt and spending the remaining apocalypse screaming for the slightest glimpse of change.

 

© Greg Fiddament
Illustration Nick Victor

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