March of the End of Days

Ella Goodman

I wipe my ass with the newspaper funnies

As time holds its breath, and we do too.

The clock abandons its place on the wall,

Counts corpses instead of minutes,

And spins cartwheels on the ceiling

Where it hangs itself quietly-

Kicking into its noose fashioned from

Double masked I-love-yous.

Slinking down deserted streets, we finally know silence;

Staring down the barrel of the end of days.

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The Doghouse