Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.


it becomes a sign of good luck, in the apocalypse:
when birds shit on your shoulder

things will come easily to you

we start to measure our lives  in the calendar and consistency of our shit,
watching our neighbours die to the still stomach, to nothing coming
to rumbling catastrophes

we pride ourselves upon our immune systems, in the future,
and our bowels
our ability to greet the world and contend with it

our tool-sense, and our dexterity,
these things have proven us foolish in the past;
in the future, we no longer want to win against nature –
we only desire to fill our hunger and shit in peace

you’re slowly dying, to still stomach
and i’m slowly dying, to the stark realization of my limit
and we’re laying by the creek, and I’m boiling us some water
and it happens, it happens –

i turn back to see a wide smile across your now-gaunt face,
and a giant streak of shit across your sweater
and i stop my prayer mid-breath


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