Wednesday, June 19, 2013

End of Nights by Jeffery Park


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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