misty wraith of end times, overdetermined destructor,
meets us, hovering over a rising hillock of asphalt,
manifests in haze the like of which we’ve never seen.
an impossibly serendipitous diffusion of fog
smoke and curvature and light and unseen dark matter.
hyperion’s disk, a golden capped mallow beyond reach,
smoking its way out of the embers on a stick.

violence, the red one, meets us with joy
on a web in the sun, dew flecked and tenuous,
as a day moth flutters and spasms to its sticky end.
pregnant, death slips along her strands
to sheath her prey in silk. spinning spinner.
a meal for her unborn in a time of need.

she tugs and pulls and drags her meal,
it comes to the verge of her dank hole,
an under-roof cave, ventilated with breeze,
hidden enough to tuck away and dark enough
to pounce upon the tremors of her invisible weaving.

gagged and bilious, vomitous in the sinuses, on the tongue,
a reflection that skews our synapses into abuse,
calories of non-nutrition, flavours of toxicity,
distended bellies of glutinous, intestinal corrosion.

our senescence is everywhen, our conception’s twin rider,
pale, putrescent, gangrenous, mortified, rotting our flesh
cleaning our bones, dusting us to nothing. without fail.

now our pillow begs for our repose,
as the world continues its disintegration around us.

the world dies large and small for us, and will always.