It's quite obvious now:
"The they" are preparing for life deep underground.
Placing final ribbons around subterranean cities.
Stockpiling sustenance
Water being siphoned to top off cisterns and privies.
The Amazon, Tigris, and Euphrates.
Superior, Michigan, and Erie are all being drained.
The surface people will be left scrambling for crumbs
in the phlegm of nuclear holocaust.
They'll devolve into hunter-gatherer clans.
To become a twisted reality show for subterraneans.
"The They" who trafficked us and ate our babies
will make a game of it, placing bets at our expense...
on who will perish -who'll be left.
Then, when the earth is somewhat cleansed.
"The They" will emerge to barter with metal from our teeth
pin our cross/bones to their puffy pigeon chests
The rest will serve as sex slaves, servants, and jesters
in the post-apocalyptic bed, "the they" have knowingly made.
Everything is temporary. Maybe it's not even real...
Life, this life...
I think you know, we have already been here.
Post-apocalyptic existence.
Utopian dreams.
Uncertainty at the surface,
the shift in between.
Contemplation and choice.
Birth.
Life.
Death.
They are all one and the same,
sharing the same knife,
to carve out the same name.
In a world filled with despair
The smell of fear fills the air
The world we once knew is far gone
Debris from the blast litters every lawn
They forced us all underground
Advising us not to make a sound
We once lived the days through
But they wanted something new
A world with no war
That of which they swore
The world we lived in would soon be great
We thought of this not knowing our fate
We walk along the only street
The others are obsolete
The bunker collapsed in on itself
As if it was a broken shelf
With nothing left to give
We ask ourselves if we should still live
Breeding and for that matter breathing has taken over the spluttering world
Retroviruses conduct symphonies for nostalgic post-apocalyptic mindfulness
Entropic madness gathers its pace as fast as loo roles escape from the shops
Xenophobia implicates the roots of all epic evil as derived from foreign strands
Itinerant chaos does not adhere to manmade boundaries as the clock runs down
To be fair though Julian Assange can surely be blamed as a harbinger of isolation
29th March 2020
Storm
Black and gray mountains devour the sun
churning and yearning to unleash their rage
deafening roars bring forth their blinding fire
with a volcanic burst of hail and rain
as if they're striving for maximum pain
deliver their deluge onto the land
like a post-apocalyptic hellscape
was always their diabolical plan
that, along with the total destruction of man
I'm in love with my post apocalyptic silence
I'm in lust with my darkless absence of violence
My island
My sun
Mind on the run
Nightfall is storm before the calm
The roof crumbles
The outside screams blood
My thoughts mutilated
So kiss my bleeding mind
And beat my stopping heart
Hold my love till daylight comes
For I never discovered you through the dark
You hit hard, you rape my heart
Till softly we do part.
they say i'm mad cynical , im down for the pentacle. all i see is you me, spiritually we've come to be .. different in so many aspects, that i expect, that you regret, you had the stones to make the step, that you now accept .. an eagles eye drops deep inside, and if you follow the tunnel ,you'll find your mind. nestled next to your sanity,insanity, post apocalyptic visions of the cryptic mystics, please regress they ramble there jaws as you battle your cause... they message your arteries ,as you fight to breath, taking everything ,take could, would, and should be.
Through putrid post apocalyptic wastelands
I wander gun in hand
prepared to annihilate those critters
who dare to cross my path
then I press the pause button
and sip from my china cup
thankful that life isn't like
my console reality
whilst I flick through the channels
on my flatscreen TV
Game break over
back to fighting bad guys
in a pixelated land
I let off a round
a-tat-a-tat-tat
It kind of looks familiar
like an item on the news
but I know my mind's just playing tricks
Real life is bliss
is this poetry?
ee cummings
darnit
they had time
to think of metaphor, allegory, imagery, rhythm, rhyme meter
I don't have time
this is poetry
of the apocalypse
poetry of the end
I don't have the time
lost at the end of time
at the end of property
wherefore art thou time
wherefore art tho anything
everything is going
therefore time to begin anew
time to wipe this slate clean
get that eraser
wipe wipe wipe wipe
dust of corruption
choking us
choking thoughts
choking creativity
choking emotions
transferring to rage
ptsd syndrome
afraid to leave my house
afraid to go to the store
afraid to go to the gym
21st century
post-apocalyptic
insanity.
am tryna formulate some lines
Since you told me that u aint gonna be mine,
You got my heart with a feelings that i cannot
define,
Love and live is all i have i in my mind
I love u do i need to say this in vernacular
Bany it hurts to separate doubles and make
em singular
I love u since u were a morula
Look now u hit me hard and made me look
like a dracular.
Baby u make me speak in mixed up tenses
Making me act as if am out of my senses
Our love now seems like a post apocalyptic
horror flcik
Has Granny gone batty?
She tells us of love,
Of flowers and trees
And a thing called a ‘dove’.
But none of these things exist now today,
Since the world heated up
And the lakes turned to clay.
The deserts are barren
Around our estate,
It’s a fight for survival,
A fight against fate.
We hear England’s legends
Of a pleasant green land
But the truth that we’ve known
Is just mountains of sand.
It is said it was greed,
A disdain for the Earth,
That robbed this poor planet
Of its greatness and worth.
We hear these old stories
And yearn for those days
Where living was easy
Beneath the Sun’s rays,
We starve now and bake
If we venture outside
And they claim again oxygen
Prices will rise.
We fight for survival,
We fight just to live,
We fight and we fight,
There’s no love left to give.
Perhaps Granny is batty
With the things that she tells
Through a longing for legend
Of fresh water wells.
Or perhaps it’s a memory
That she holds so dear;
Yes – I see now the truth
In her lone dusty tear.
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