Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.


up the west coast,
the rain takes on a grey hue
falls sluggishly, carries the smell of rot with it

the cities on the coast,
most of them get abandoned
due to the rot
the way the grey clings to cracks, and cakes in gutters

At first, we call them rot cities
and then rotties, for short
and then the grey starts sweeping inland, it starts
sleeping on our doorstep

and we shut the fuck up, and don’t call it anything.


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