After the blood moon, the planet is fluid.
Birds frenzy & shriek – our bodies arrow away.
The sun is a milky, ruined eye.
Civilization mutilates its face. Sleeps on benches,
chews its hands. Under the red glare,
its face burns brown & black & bleached.
Reality shakes off its plumage.
The city is not a city but a silken mirage,
water is a chemical soup, food is disease.
The mirage shimmers. Gorges itself. Vomits.
We pretend to believe in it
& that is its power.
The stars are foaming at the mouth.
Fire hastens to a barren field.
I am a barren field.
We deserve what’s coming.
Daytime: such rough strangers.
Nighttime: such awful images –
blue-lipped children, nuclear clouds,
the tongue of a hellhound, wet & hungry.