Epic. In progress.

This is the apocalypse that I am hoping for. The one that's contained within our glorious intent. The one where the wolves become the governors, and the towns and cities become the dens. Where the apes gnash the statues of old soldiers to sharpen their teeth, battlefield promotions. Where the bleeding of our hearts is kept as donations for the sick, and the doctors become witches and madmen. With unobtainable resolutions raining from the sky and preordained solutions offering sympathy from the temples, the priests all become wizards and victims.

This is the apocalypse I'm hoping for, eschaton and immanence meeting in the middle, engines roaring in the shapes of the flock and the herd. Where everyone is hunters, and everyone is prey. The elections are held in the tops of the trees, the candidate is snake, the opponent is shaman, the ballot is cast in venom and in charms. Crowning a monarch to stand silent and weep.

This is the apocalypse I am hoping for. The one where bronze makes you a king and steel makes you a god. When the blood of the earth is the last of the gasoline. When the motorcade follows the migrations so they can stay fat, and the remnants of cocktail gowns and parking lots are scattered by the winds. Where if you survive the plague you are still fed to the dog, and the bells only ring when the storms force it out of them.

In my apocalypse Father Bear will come roaring out of the blizzard, leading the charge of war against Mother Mountain and the stones of Memory and Fire. Branches will be collected to bring end to the war and as always new songs are born. Songs of the road's sacred meanings, and of how the oak's face withered in the unforgiving winter dawn.

This is the apocalypse I am hoping for, stories are told around old fires hidden behind rocks and rubble. Whispered stories of the men eating each other as the hyenas nip at their heels. Told by a shaman of the lost languages, he who weaves of word what was once woven with wire. No trophy to distinguish him, just the calm gaze of the sand in his stare.

This is the apocalypse I am hoping for. The tribes are formed out of the lost and the weary, the exiles have gone on to become the wizards of the empty. The rats and the roaches make up the new congregations, garbage prophets and plague seers. It is all given to them as offering, all that was and is, the world a new gallows for which to hang themselves on. The new men emerge, built of stick and feather, furs and flint. Too afraid to create new fire, they fight the cold with tinder and claw, leather and rope.

In the apocalypse I am hoping for the stars have died and been reborn as new constellations. The rotation of the earth is measured in long strides, and time moves without any observance, and it promotes bliss amongst the tattered masses.

The Forge

The slumbering giant within these eight stone walls. Iron headed and divine. He speaks in crow riddles and decides the fate of the small men of bronze. Deciphering the questions contained within the throne and the scepter, the crown and the meat house. Ancient writings, the ravings of the eons, crushing, debilitating. The slumbering giant within these eight stone walls. He dreams of the Mother. Of how the small men of bronze would dance for her. Building the fires with the weakest amongst them. Waking only to drink of the water within these eight stone walls. Immediately resuming fitful iron headed slumber. The slumbering giant within these eight stone walls. He spent his youth at the forge within these eight stone walls. Wide awake and bearing the weight of his Iron head. Forging the thrones and the scepters, the crowns and the cleavers. Humming the songs that made the bronze men dance. The forge's fires were stoked by the weakest amongst them. The slumbering giant within these eight stone walls. One day he will wake for water and not return to his respite. He will hear the songs of the bronze men, and feel the warmth build in his forge. The Mother will tell him his time has returned, she'll send it in eons, in crowns, and in meat. He will begin the humming that inspires some bronze men to dance around others that burn. He dreams of the Mother constructing a door.

Blouse

Over the hill comes the sound of a joyous war.
Counter attacks of exuberance and cheer.
Rattling against itself, the sky echoes the sentiment.
Delicate and driven are these bombs of celebration.
The generals hold the torches as guides and spotlights
Armed to the teeth with great booming laughter.

Over the hill comes the sound of joyous war
I sit with you and wish for the war to come home.
The mob has arranged for a fantastic party.
The masses are wailing for hilarious success
Celebration will come to the chaff
and the chattel
And the cups will be drained as the fire consumes.