END OF NIGHTS
It happened, as one might expect,
at the singularly worst possible
moment
and in the worst imaginable place –
i.e. between the sheets –
as we were waiting and praying for
the
second coming; happened exactly as
had been preordained, prophesied a
million billion eons ago, it was
there and easy
to see and read and grasp every
excruciating
little detail.
My boat was rocked, my mind was
blown,
the earth moved, and not in a good
way,
more in the planet-killing CGI epic
vein –
Snowmaggedon, Crapocolypse and
Shagnarok
all rolled into one jaw-dropping
chest-thumping nipple-twisting
casserole
of existential anguish.
And there in the midst of the sweat
and rumbling and ultimate
test-to-destruction
creaking of bedsprings I convulsed,
I retched, I bit my lips and
clenched my toes,
all to no avail – you pinned me,
pierced me,
butted me right in the temple –
I tried to cry for help but all I
could hear
was my own shrill voice: the
rapture! the rapture!
Look into my eyes, you said, what
do you see?
Darkening fields, feasts of crows,
twilight of the gods.
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