Poem: Sky-Gazing



I could weep for confusion

The clouds are inflamed with the tangled nebulae

Of a mystic history

Suspended in a trance of strata

When will my apocalypse come?

When will those monstrous 72 hours

Begin their risible countdown?

A meteorite is arching through the heavens

Like a couchant lion

Eating its own coat of arms

This isn’t Piccadilly Circus

But a Pickled Onion

Take the sleep out of my eyes

I need to be awake for this


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