by Matt Nagin

Artwork, “Figure from Met” by Howard Skrill

How many days do you have left? How long will your nights

stretch on? How many times can you ask yourself these

strange, impenetrable questions?  


When will the aneurysm burst? The parrot grow silent?

Our sun detonate in a kaleidoscope of majestic uncertainty?


When will clocks run backwards? Nights crash into a depraved,

fuliginous moon?  When will you walk home sideways, your

future conquered equally by abandonment and seduction?


When will the apocalyptic grin peer menacingly over the

edge of a cryptic horizon?

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