/lit/ - Literature

When the world ended
we did not stand on cliffs overlooking our cities
the fortunate lay and drowsed on their couches,
they were not at all disturbed

There was no final omen as had been pronounced-
the sky did not go abruptly dark
cosmic trumpets did not interrupt our routine
the same pornography retained its typical importance

When the world ended it did so in secret

When it really happened the buildings
did not buckle and what is beautiful
and immortal of us was not assumed
into the next life or the a higher dimension

When the world ended it was
unremarkable,
unimpressive,
unsatisfactory

No one poured themselves a consolatory glass
no one waited naked in their corner of the dark to die

our finest vintages went unconsumed

Love songs and love confessions
died unsung and unconfessed-

the next day we all went back to work

The police were not called
the government was not alarmed
cats did not cease to kill birds for sport
and leave the feathered bodies at their fed-up owners’ feet

As we passed through the streets
no sandwich board man shouted:

Last night the conspirators won
all of our gods were assassinated
all of their children were smothered
my words have marked me for death
my disappearance will be the sign of my truth

Hell arrived and established its dominion

Children were not excused from school
the soldiers were not granted leave of their posts,
in the prisons the prisoners were in no way pardoned
the debtors were in now way relieved of their debts

We were in a stairwell at the Eighth and Market Station
your hands were cold and their skin was cracked

yet as I held them I was certain
I was never meant to hold anything more precious

This was the summit of my years, indeed,
and you kissed me to sleep

I mean this is why they said you have to own your own house. Everybody's gone now and what they left is all over my tables and floors.

I flit from surface to surface examining empty glasses for cracks and mixing half filled ones into all-sorts then downing them. It's the holidays now so I drink through my teeth instead of straight down the gullet. It's always that way this time of year.

My hands are all soft and cracked from the dishwater and the dry air. Don't feel bad for me, I chose to live up here in the Mid Atlantic. There's a cold front coming through and I feel bad about dispatching my friends back out into all that. Nobody should have to stand out there in the cold. Nobody should have to drive through it.

An ownerless black dog is coming up the street now and I'm turning out all the lights and blowing out all the torches I set up. I crank the dial of the porch heater down to zero and blow out the flame. I don't know why I even turned it on. Nobody stood out there all night. But I'm watching this black dog canter uphill past my door and out to the pike. While the heater's coils go cold he locks eyes with me for a moment, shakes his tail and keeps on running.

I don't like my job very much and neither does my wife. I do pretty well though. It's enough to buy too many bottles of wine for a party that ends too soon. Before I put her to bed, I grabbed one of the bottles by the neck and flicked my corkscrew at my waist like a switchblade. She told me I was done and it didn't even occur to me that I'd drank so much that she could tell me I was done. I guess we had company.

I'd like to thank all of you for coming out tonight. We had a great time and some good conversations.

I'm going to find you where I always do, I'm going to find a black dog's carcass spread like jam on the blacktop tomorrow. I'll feel bad when I talk to him through the driver's side window. I'll tell him he missed the party.

We're going to have another one soon. Maybe next weekend. It's going to be as hype as you want. Come out and talk to me.

I'll beg to talk to you.

Have a seat, anon. Or stand if you want. No big deal.

What's on your mind? How are you feeling?