it’s always been
ready, set, ready, set,
and we never heard the starting gun
we’re still not dead 

it was quarter to midnight
at the dawn of the end of our
parents’ myopic
and everyone threw their hands in the air,
and in a desperate last breath
put their naked hands on the anvil,
proclaiming fear towards the impending swastikas, terrorists, sickles and hammers —

and still we kept our bad manners in check
while  cashing the check of 
non-complaince; unable to admit that maybe the only solution
was anarchy and voilence.

and as the riots in the street
didn’t happen
we wondered why the giants of industry
ground us into
to be discarded in the morning.

we screamed into the void,
wondering how all the friendly voices
had been usurped by white noise and total silence.

ya, honey, it’s the end of the world
every fucking time,
but i’m still going to dance on the kaleidoscope
until the fractals and prisms

the quiet
never-ending pyrotechnics
of suns gone supernova
in the darkness.

Willie Watt



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