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ISSN: 1941-4137 |
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Volume Three Issue Two |
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End Games If you think this is a ruin, you're mistaken. So dinner is a jagged jigsaw; swept off the table, eating the floor. So the windowsill's shrouded with mayflies- murk-wing confetti. So it's been a sad year, and down the street a car-alarm is blotting out bedtime, and the ink-flocked sky is a chromatogram; fading charm. But look to the right, under that drab-drip starsign. A small tree is flexing his neck. The birds take their cue, scatter neatly. They are leaving for the outdoor cinema, where they will crowd the back row, flap at their favourite parts. We could spend our days fearing the end of days. How we would go, modes of transportation. I like to dress my doom in the Rapture; snuffed out to the snapping of fingers, bone-still mute music, until every city is spat-out gum, rootless squares of light. You prefer a zombie apocalypse: all phone-gripped kitchen knives and lampshade machetes, towel-tourniquet toothy tumult, friendless frenzy days. Outside your window everyone's dancing. You think it's because they are infected. Adrift in your room, we lock the door. Across the road the car is still crying. The McDonald's sign blinks and fuzzes, keeping time. Maybe this will be its last valentine to french fries. So a gnawing crowd will buckle through the walls. So we'll disappear. But For now, nothing's ruined. Come here. Kiss me. You can put down your butter-knife. |
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