End of the world

When cyanide and phosphorus are all in the atmosphere there is nothing left to fear. What comes next after the autumnal apocalypse? Nothing left other than the unthreading of the baseball’s stitches, little red thread unraveling.

When there is nothing left in Tehran then I will understand what I have become.

What but a posthumous breath is there for us left in the stages of the exorcism of death?

Nothing but the penultimate penumbra left on the stage and Shakespeare's number is the Quintus of slaves.

I believe in civil forfeiture as long as the coast is clear and there is no sense of dying in the nadir.

Like I know what the bullet is thinking when it travels at a million centimeters a second at my head?

It is lead.

I am dead.

Nothing but a text message left unread.

Okay, pause, what is the saccharine smell of honeysuckle now to me when the ship is hauled to the lees?

Shit. Percussion cap calls it a wrap and then the bullet flies back but what can I do when all the keys are lit up like jewels and all the maps are left unperused?

Peruse.

Light the fuse.

There is nothing left but the sickle cell blood death of the bereft of the cleft palate, like I’m not around to solve it.

Antigen 560

I’m so tired.

Give me the reciprocating deviator so I can fall asleep under the numerator.

Never.

Elongating the sound of cotton placed in your ear drums I am faced with the solvency of tums, the equilibrium of thumbs, the misplacement of the misophonia that comes from otoconia displaced.

Kill me.

Please, let the schism of schizophrenia take hold.

Dripping in the solemn quagmire of a cave lost like Plato with his eyelids scorched, I can’t help but notice a specific type of reflection, like a lost connection, like a vibration that is stuck in a crustacean.

Like rock lobster, fuck the mobster.

I hate when the plague overtakes us and rats chew at our tongues.

There is little hope for humanity amidst the next outbreak.