WHAT’S NEXT? I walk the wasteland cold; where beauty erupted green and where beauty melted red and now all is grey. Gargantuan concrete pillars with glass broken by loud blasts that echo epochs later on the earholes of blackened burned skeletons and the tanned leathers of extinct little creatures who never had a chance in Hell, this is what remains.
others see the middle, but what comes next? My eyes shall not see the answer, I will scrawl the question with my eyeballs upon the rough concrete pillars nearby as a warning to those dying, those at the end of humanity. Answer that which I missed, prove to me all was not lost and the voices are real and that laughter is all there was.
Brown trees smoldered to the stump, cut short by the flame, with no more oxygen to give as life has come and gone again. Seems every day is an apocalypse: sometimes nuclear sometimes zombies sometimes disease - regardless, it all ends the same. I am a pair of floating eyeballs, consciousness among the departed and these brown orbs watch it all, tear ducts not intact. Perspective is tricky, is there anyone else out there? I should think so, for the whispers are not my own; I am just eyes in the ruins, not a mouth. Some days I hear laughter, other people do not cry though. I try my best to let the saltwater flow, but anatomy will not have a sniffle of it. My perspective is the end, others see the beginning,
LOST TO ATOMIC FIRE This wasteland of mine, it is all I love or have, is marked by men wearing torn tires. The sky is emerald smog, lost its periwinkle to the crimson, golden warheads of a bitch named Mother Russia. Vodka seals my throat, protects it from radiation burns. It is my last companion, for my friends are shadows on frayed wallpaper. This day I drank far too much, I know this as I’m asking a new question: Where is my old America? My eyes turn to ruined skycrapers, hanging concrete towers, grey buildings with cracks like spider webs, and lines of halted white Studebakers. Why did I press the big red button?