apocalypsis

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
apocalypse aint pretty

Submitted: May 21, 2013

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Submitted: May 21, 2013

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the ground is a clean ice black from the dissolution of asphalt.

on a few limbs

skulls ripe reddish gold-

fruit for desperate days.



on the last nerve

feel low throbbing

as if this skyline has finally found his knees,

your brain-blood its proper course,

heart sinking immaculately into

heretic drums.



you've won

you've won.


apocalypsis proves us right.


so

our race survives a few seconds more:

eyes warm and white as rubber eggs,

arms loose, soft,

recently pickled

spilled alarmingly over the bedside,

mucus-gloss drizzling off

each pinky

or toe.

 


© Copyright 2019 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.

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