The planet’s howling.
It’s busting up into water, fire, air and dirt.
What in the name of Francois Villon
is going on here?
I am immersed in the small things
while, all the while.
the sun’s imploding
some gamma ray is shrieking.
out with him!
I’m trying to get through to
a woman who enjoys
listening to the tinkle
of tiny bells on her bracelet,
or sipping tea, or darning socks,
and the apocalypse is splashing
hell all over us
like a giant Jackson Pollock
flicking his paint on canvas.
The self is unimportant
The stroke of twelve has fallen.
Doesn’t matter whether one
is measly flesh or cast in bronze.
Hand on the telephone, I’m fried.
Pecking out numbers, I’m ashes.
Confessing my feelings,
the boiling ocean sweeps me away.
Awaiting your reply,
I’m blown out into space.
Hearing your answer,
I’m nothing but an abstract poem
scribbled across the edges of the universe.
What do your precious cheekbones mean now
that a mountain has been uprooted?
What can your day possibly look like,
if continents are squashed like gloves?
Meet you at twelve,
but, I already told you,
twelve has been and gone,
has razed and raped and…
and you wonder,
but has it reconciled?
Okay, so I’ll meet you at twelve.
But it’s not like St John the Divine
didn’t warn you.
JOHN GREY is an Australian poet living in the U.S. His work has recently been published in New Plains Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.