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Nailbar
failed state
crowbars
curate.

White robes
desert
agape
dirt.

Thanos firkytoodling,
Nero a-noodling,
the Fat Lady's yodeling,
cascades tipping overly,
Ragnarok's shakerattling,
4 Horsemen redrumming,
our human superpower
is that we know what's coming, yet

We're seemingly
powerless
to resist
the striptease
of the abyss.

Grownups
debate
should Greta
be shot
or *****.

World War
III
better be
******
****.

What have we done to our fair sister?
Nihilists **** goodtime gal, Gaia.
Tho' the good times may well be maya,
the Void in the **** is Medusa.
Ego Profeta May 22
Seemingly
Day & Night
We both walk like
THE WALKING DEAD

BOTH are No longer
ALIVE
Side by Side
Limp with an awkward
STRIDE

But still in your
DYING LIGHT
I don't Exist

While standing Right before
YOU
Within your Midst

But DEATH'S Mist is too Thick
Your bliss is too SICK to
KISS

While feeling Dismissed
I now leave with a
LISP

Along with
Slurred SPEECH no Tounge
In Cheek Words to
Speak

Cause you're my
WEAKNESS

I feel I'm getting
WEAKER and
weaker
by the sec

Feeling Vexed
OVERsexed
PERPLEXED
Wrote this based on The video game
Dying Light and the TV show The Walking Dead
Cayley Raven May 11
The apocalypse
destroying the precious lives
we could have enjoyed
Cayley Raven May 7
I had a dream
about the end of the world,
the apocalypse.
It was the last of our days,
the sky turned dark red,
a total sun eclipse.

Shattered buildings,
fallen power poles
shutting down all lights,
the air was full of heavy dust,
polluting our lungs
and raining were meteorites.

And even then,
the selfish little me
went to save nobody, my love.
No, I went to steal
the only precious thing
that we were running out of.

Time. The one
we took for granted,
such a foolish thing to do.
I stole your last seconds
so I could spent the end of times
in tight embrace with you.
What a romantic way to go..
Pete May 4
“There’s not even room enough to be anywhere
Its not dark yet, but it’s getting there”. – Bob Dylan
.
A pair of die is tossed across a plywood-table.
It’s oak-veneer of creamy grain glisters with light
Which falls crummy, like dandruff from naked bulbs
That are illumined by a hand that screws;
There is no switch.
The flick of that wrist charms those die into snake eyes.
And so, the two-fold trick erupts our opposites on top
Of the laminated universe. The stones have settled.

You can smell the ignited, paper wick
Of a well-packed cigarette
But none of the sweet leaf which follows.
The virtue of our space is that
The substance is snuffed out.

No more panache with death-
Wish; just sadness fumbling with toilet
Paper, because tissues got expensive.
Pretty quick the crown of that nose chafes
Against the single-ply and specks of skin
Suspend themselves in oddly solar
Bathroom light. But the cells reform so quick;
The cartilage is solid like the trunks of effusive,
Sappy trees that create a sympathetic prison.
Soon, apathetic winter comes to ****
The ornaments obscuring
A depthless forest.

So stripped of foliage, an ascetic, wintry oak
Must look inside itself.
The anatomy of tree
As annulated grain,
Is kept concealed; flat circles. marking. years.
It sees Prospero’s Ariel and Carlotta’s Madeleine.
They’re gagged, trapped in the trunk
And point outside the Vertigo of time –
Inside the television – to “total flow” –  
(Where Scottie drools catatonically)
To spotless light, in evergreen rooms
That are built of such better pulp.

..

Conspicuous are characters around here.
It seems that silver dollars stack ten to a word
Of which so many do plague these matted
And miserly phrases.
Intelligent, it isn’t.  Green looks blue;
Intelligence is stupid. It does not sound
Like anything and means much less.
No, they’re hopeful to be musical or
Umbilical; like, connected to the harmonic
Mother who’s just now gestating an utterance
For life or death. Whichever side
Of the soil you prefer.

Most folks used to hedge their bets on both
But eternity is out, the moment is in.
Like Jesus Christ it’s difficult to stay
With the latest
Transcendental style.  
Friction atomizes faith’s tension ‘till
Belief systems are burned out.

The Library of Babel is in flames.
The ash falls and frosts the boughs
Of culture’s mangey oak.

That tree, was just struck by the zeitgeist’s lightning.
And furiously, so furiously our year’s snow is falling,
On all the breathing; all the sleeping,
Whom sawing logs are situated in the worst, possible
S(lumber).


I saw dust, and it looked like me.
I am the 3rd Adam.
I am a-bomb.
And I will deliver us.

Sawdust
Naeem May 1
The morning after,
the darkest of days
Bring the bluest of skies, filled with disaster
With ripples that start a new phase.
The dust finally disappearing
and the wind whistling
upon the green hills a clearing
and the hunters whittling.
A new world arises.
Thrones itself on the ashes,
looking down on us, despises.
Dreams built on flashes.
So comes the morning after
Skies filled disaster.
dempsey Apr 27
now, as i wander through the streets
littered with the rubble from our broken city
sprinkled with the blood of our fallen people
i wonder where it all went wrong.
before, when we could enjoy simple things
like ice cream, kissing, gazing at stars
feeling a certain kind of breeze on your neck,
feels almost like a fever dream. before it all
went away. before everything fell apart.
i don't know what the future holds.
perhaps the dawn of a new age, a new
kind of world for future generations.
perhaps children will take it and run, use the
struggles they suffered through
as inspiration for their career, their songs
their creativity. why did you let it all go?
they will scream so loud, breaking their mic
they will smash the table to pieces, they
will bite the necks of men so hard they bleed
they will eat sour things and drink poison
study cosmology and the reason behind
our armageddon, they won't give up...
or else, they will. they will surrender to
the bad people. sit down and stay still
and cry themselves to sleep. i hope it
doesn't happen, at least not anytime soon.
now, as i kick through these ruins of our
city, breathe the smoky air, step over the
bodies, i ask the heavens, (no one in
particular, if we're being honest) did we
deserve this? yes, you did, they cry back.
with everything going on now, i think i'm more inspired than usual by the dystopian sort of reality we're living in. our houses have become like fallout shelters, guarding us from the dangerous world outside. it's not as bad as i described though, i just wanted to make it more dramatic haha
Nuclear Winter: Solo Restart
by Michael R. Burch

Out of the ashes
a flower emerges
and trembling bright sunshine
bathes its scorched stem,
but how will this flower
endure for an hour
the rigors of winter
eternal and grim
without men?

Keywords/Tags: nuclear, winter, radiation, ashes, life, reemerges, without, men, Armageddon, Apocalypse, extinction, event
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