As the Boomers fall from the sky like figs,
Excreting extinction from each and every orifice
And pale Pestilence bubbles up from the ground where we’ve laid
Our frail to rest and where the young will shortly follow
I long to be in your arms
As you and I abandon all plans past next Tuesday
Don’t cry for the mob will hear us sniffle:
The mob who forgot their neighbour
Amidst their self-mummification who
Monitor and mutilate and
I long to be in your arms
As the Flames rise up like spears in a phalanx
And we self-isolate in squat-houses,
The sky tinted red but our souls tinted blue, the crackling
Reception Overpowers you and
I long to be in your arms
As we lose ourselves in it all,
When a shiver turns to pneumonia,
The poles have flipped
And we’re spinning
Like the chambers in a Russian revolver,
I wander empty streets and
I long to be in your arms.
Artwork by – SOUP
Sweetly Unhappy People 