i.
did you hear
the world is ending and the stove has been
left on. the chicken is scorched.
the children are evolving and the sky is taking his clothes off, ripping his rubicund morning gown down the middle, heart blue
one thousand paper airplanes are thrown down
dripping out of all three of his slacked mouths,
to fight the demons running on land
stars puncturing straight through
to their red brains —
ii.
the tv has a technicolor crack in it
the people inside leak out and there's
news at eight in a puddle on the floor,
TEENAGER FOUND DEAD IN SMALL BUSH or, ALTERNATIVELY, WHY BUSHES ARE KILLING OUR CHILDREN
mixed with
basketball and a townhall and
somewhere one million people are meeting
to discuss the fate of an unholy few. the baby is crying. the baby is dying. who's going to save the baby? who can save the baby?
—
@ a poet join the revolution the apocalypse starts at dawn
YOU ARE READING
OPEN-BRAIN SURGERY
Poetryshoved a needle in my brain and now my head won't stop bleeding
