More proof the organs of the body are limiters rather than perceivers:

Dementia onset grandma sees all time at once unfold to her
in the hospital
I am her grandson, son, father, and brother in scattered fragments

The brother amid a manic schizoid crisis can read
your thoughts and see auras
despite my practiced techniques of staying stonefaced and neutral


Eternal Recurrence
Is this where you want to be when YOU come back?

Numbing our faculties with drink and smoke to
forget the faults of our individuality
Unconsciously strive for death
the hallowed and forbidden no man's land of
some universal hum


Forgive all your past
because we're all faulty radios seeking to
receive that same AM static

They used to say to be like the ocean
who can take in polluted rivers, but not be polluted itself
Now the ocean's dying

We achieved an unthinkable number of polluted rivers
It's high time us kind folk dry themselves off and
stop the apocalyptic Millerites from killing us all
prematurely

We need to convince ourselves we're blameless to
grow a backbone and point a collective finger at
the selfish flimflammers we've let rule us so long

But one vision I could endorse
is the scene early in 28 Days Later
when Jim leaves the hospital and
walks across Westminster Bridge into
a deserted London at sunrise
as Godspeed You Black Emperor play

Finally I'd be the rightful
Emperor of London
raid supermarkets, steal cars
(it's not really stealing any more)
until, as the rest of the film
inevitably points out

You'd have to deal with
the dead
the undead
the rats and
the loneliness

Although I've been preparing
for that
my whole life

F♯ A♯ ∞

I find it so easy
to think poetically
of the world
as one giant beach

On it in which
all of us stand
and wait for
the clouds of radiation
to roll in

To resign ourselves
to the disaster
on the horizon
because that's the direction
inertia carries us

It is easier—
at least for some—
to imagine learning to die
than learning to fight

This is the great trial
Of being alive
Right now

It is necessary
for all of us
to view ourselves
accurately
in the pre
Apocalypse

And yet
because of this
it is also
absolutely vital
to imagine
and work
and dream
of a world
that is different

Watch this, another one bleeds
Another life lost to the feed
It’s a circus! And we’re all laughing desperately!
This is it! Our collapse is televised, monetized and livestreamed!

I set the table before dawn;
the woodgrain clothed in white linen,
adorned with embroidered daisies stitched in hope,
fraying around the edges,
six chairs lay in wait,
none of them needed.
The wind RSVP'd weeks ago,
she brought ash instead of sugar,
while the silence stirred itself.
The roses arrived, already wilted.
I placed them anyway,
in the vase my great grandmother used
for holy water and secrets.
The cups are chipped,
the silver lining of the rims rubbed away,
but they remember the hands that held them,
once.
I pour tea, lukewarm,
for ghosts who do not thank me,
only mirror the steam,
their cries echoing in weighted air.
The sky cleaves beyond these hedgerows,
a throat that has swallowed thunder it cannot hold.
Still, I pass the cream,
to no one,
savoring the semblance of civility,
drinking down decorum,
a peace offering
to those who do not deserve
not even a lump of compassion,
nor a second thought.
I raise the fractured bone vessel,
"Drink",
I spit to the air,
"a toast to the burning
and the stoking of fires
that you just couldn't keep from feeding".
The kettle screams.
The world tilts, cracks, crumbles,
the crumbs unable to be swept from the table,
clinging to edges of lace napkins,
impossible to fold away.
Pinkies out,
I face the heat,
with a fascinator veiling the curl
of a smirk that knows it won't taste victory,
just finality,
steeped in bitter black.

The sky split
like an old wound—
bleeding rust into the morning,
the sun a swollen blister
peeling over charred hills.

Crows forgot how to scream.
Smoke stitched the air
with ghost-thread,
and time slumped forward,
dragging its feet through bone dust.

We learned silence
was not peace,
but a lull before the rot—
cities swallowed whole
like old regrets,
steel ribs poking from earth
like the remains of some god
we failed to worship right.

Rain came
black and sour,
tasting of copper and grief.
The trees bent
as if praying,
but no one listened.

Even the stars
flickered out
like breath on glass.

Hope was a flickering radio,
a child humming to static,
a name whispered
to a grave that never answered.

We were the last psalm
sung into a ruined cathedral,
echoes crumbling
on their way out.

And still—
beneath the ash,
something small and stubborn
twitches.

Not life.
Not yet.
But maybe.

Coffee prices
on the rise
double digit
inflation.
A headline
reads:
Is it the
beginning
of the end?

Must we face
the apocalypse
in a state of
withdrawal?

Madam History sways, it swings, it plays,
It climbs so high,
Then downward strays!
Nothing stands still—it all goes on.
On steel so thin, we’ve stepped, the cornice.

At deadlock’s point, the tension grows—
To and fro,
Fro and to!
And all could end in one swift flow…
But the trumpet’s not yet blown!

There’s hope, my friend—it lies in Salvation!
It’s not so simple, dear, you’ll see.
The apocalypse’s ruination?
But not yet built is our redoubt!

Still History sways, it swings, it plays,
The skies won’t fall, they’ll hold their place.
The Beast still growls, it bites, it preys…
And builds its fiery stronghold’s base!

*redoubt – a defensive structure.


     Мадам История

Мадам История качается.
Стремится вверх,
Несётся в низ!
Всё не стоит – всё продолжается.
На тонкий встали мы карниз.

У мёртвой точки напряжение –
Туда-сюда,
Сюда – туда!
И может всё в одно мгновение…
Но не трубит ещё Труба!

Надежда есть – она в спасение!
Не так всё просто, милый друг.
Апокалипсиса крушение?
Но не построен тот редут!

Ещё История качается
И небеса не упадут.
А Зверь рычит и огрызается…
И строит огненный оплот!