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Apocalypsis
Shots of angry Dawn®
reach my lips, snaps of peach
and a bit o' vermin-tail. The women
gargoyle about the buff blinds, chains
of barbed-wire tinkle from their bras.
It's love, the same
harsh distance as igneous
shards, rock love--
the land it's spewed up on. In my dream
of the apocalypse, this molten stream
of steel breathes a steam of burnt
bodies: flesh made
ethereal in the moment of a shell-
shocked jubilation. What motivates us
is nothing. What moves
us is the cold, stale
scent of the void.