AT THE END


when that room narrows 
under the influence of anadin and vodka
and somebody slumbers too late towards `a cellphone

when old daddy skippers his ghosts 
dancing through a trash of screens
it's the back-handed story of end-times brailling us out

a rhythm is driving me mad
as a darling, darling

here we are at the front bottom of being
hugging our parts to our holes

in the fields of grit
the browner people eat shit

the West end of the end
is hushed up by well-researched packaging

you go for curvature of letters, vanishing dots,
everything rushing 
to get through the tiny hole of a word

at the end of an end
time to turn the fuck off