Song of the Picker (The End)

The smog of modernity crowds me,

The system surrounds me

Entombed, womb plastered pinned in an echo chamber of

Blips and bleeps and brain spiking pulses of doom.

No exit point.

No C-section to crawl out of.

This is the end man.


You doubt me, you take me to the grave

Gnarled wood boxes edge the end

The ground pulses, bulging bathing in rot and marrow-less bone

Inevitability crowds my children’s children, light unshown

damned and now done.

Slammed flat lengthwise sideways

across bloodstained sheets.


Someday the lies and piss on your neighbors face pillage parade

will end and die, like

everything, anything else for no one else to care about.

Forever and ever amen.


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