Year of the Cretin

The Apocalypse has sublimated. It’s always happening somewhere. Tel Megiddo is a crest of the wave that is Everything. Each city is a series of dead moments piling up, soft polyps crawling over aeons of coral. The dead city Tel Megiddo will rise again, and fall again, and we will all fall after.
Suicide’s terror doesn’t live in the bullet. It’s not confined to razor lines or concrete rushing to meet you. It’s open the way that light is open, flickering past the shadows. Neither pill nor noose nor needle kills people; all people who live are killers.
Small sucking babes kill their mothers, devouring their cells by the thousands. The dandelion is a lion’s tooth, apomictic granules colonizing where they land. The sun never sets on the Taraxacum’s empire, making us piss our beds in the night. Even the worms, divisible, negotiable, deplete the reserves of the dead.
Tiny hands branch into tiny fingers. Hairs erect when danger nears. The whole body is an unspooled thread winding nervous, fractal, and frayed.  Those fingers can push a big red button. Those fingers can go in your ears. Those fingers hear your heart from a distance, and grow to hate the thumping sound.
Words have their roots deep inside our heads, where sometimes the hairs grow in. We were always ready for a bad hairdo to sway us. We’ve hungered for gold to spin. Towers trump our sense of scale and seize our mammal-hearts. Fingers clench and point and tick, counting seconds with our hands. This Apocalypse has lurked inside us, since chains were linked and atoms split.
The end is always nigh. It has nowhere else to go.

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